#fucking scumbag somewhere. much to think about
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I guess Im glad ultimately Ive gotten over using this site well before I ever really put any of my shit here.
#and honestly knowing cohost is pretty bad and willingly caters to immediately provably harmful communities and people doesnt help either.#discord is also pretty fucking bad in ways. feeling like theres nowhere to show off my anything without it being used to make money for som#fucking scumbag somewhere. much to think about#like ive had this reserved stance for years and only really posted my poetry here. and its never felt good to use ultimately.#not to mention when this blog was being actively stalked by one of my online harrasers. thankfully that never went any further than it did.#its not like this hasnt been a shit site to use since ive gotten here but. i dont know. its certainly a whole fucking lot and even more so#in light of recent events on top of everything else ive been feeling and going through lately its just. cemented in me another kind of hate
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Oh good, Texas Republicans have yet again proven that if the bar is set into the floor they will show up with a jackhammer to make sure they can go under it no matter how much structural damage that causes to Democracy.
#I usually want to punch at least four of them in the face at any given time#but today I also want to hit Patrick with a car#most of them are SO SCUMMY it is SO GROSS#my dad and I were talking about it the other night and it's probably way worse than it looks too#like the bribes Paxton was taking were in no way sufficient to buy what he was doing#that was chump change#which means there's more of it somewhere else#also some of the things he mentioned Nate Paul doing sound like the money he has is Not Legit#like I don't know if it's Major Crime or Actual Treason but he sounds like he's much worse than just a small-time scumbag with money#and mind you my dad is pretty conservative and still regularly votes Republican and HE thinks this fails the smell test#ugh#I hate the politics in this state#it's not even representative we're just so fucking gerymandered that the Republicans get WHOEVER THEY RUN#even when that means 'actual noted scumbag adulterer and criminal Ken Paxton'#babble tea (blacklist this for less chatter)#us politics#texas politics
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Helllooo! I'm back with another ask
I was thinking a vox getting jealous because Valentino was being Valentino and flirting with (fem) reader and vox marking her up or something like that to just prove that reader is only his- sorry if this sounds confusing lol if it ain't coherent feel free to delete, hope u have a nice day tho!!
-🎶
I love this! I wish bad violent things on Valentino so getting to write him getting rejected and shit will be fun!
warnings: nsfw. possessive sex. also unprotected sex, which u shouldn't do. semi-public/public sex (in a limo). also valentino exists in this. i hate valentino, so im gonna warn u that he's even here. fuck u valentino. marking + biting. vox has kinda like an ownership (?) kink idk what the word is but he likes the concept of you belonging to him. also warning for valentino being a gross pervy scumbag who flirts with anything with a hole.
- It was meant to just be a quick drop by with Vox, as he had to quickly stop by Valentino's studio for a quick discussion. This was your first time actually meeting the infamous Valentino. Vox had never really wanted you to meet him, for reasons unknown, but today he had no choice but to bring you along to his brief meeting.
- It went exactly like he was dreading it would.
- "Where you been hiding this little chula, huh?" Valentino asked, taking the back of your hand, and planting what started off as a light kiss, but very quickly became a long lick, leaving you feeling confused, as well as a bit mortified.
- Vox was very quick to take a step between the two of you, his eye twitching as he tried his best to keep that smile on his face, needing to keep up his stupid little act of respect so that this obnoxious bastard of a man wouldn't throw a tantrum. Valentino has power that Vox can use, so he can't just yet show just how much he dislikes the moth-demon.
- The rest of that quick little chat felt like eternity, and Vox could not WAIT to get the fuck out of those studios. Hell, he was considering fucking the shit out of you right then and there just to show Valentino that he needs to fuck off. He wouldn't outright say anything, but he sure as shit would show Valentino who you belong to.
- You barely got out of the studio and back into Vox's limo when he pounced on you.
- "That prick. He needs to learn to keep his hands off what isn't his." he grumbled to himself as he made quick work of laying you back against the seat, hovering over you. Within no time, your neck was littered with marks and bites, Vox making an effort to make them as visible as possible. Bright and clear enough for even Valentino's blind ass to see.
- Pure jealousy was fuelling him at that moment, as well as possessiveness. He was gonna make sure no other lowlife fucker ever DARED to even think about touching you ever again. That was his job alone. You were HIS girl.
- Part of him considered leaving his name on you somewhere, somehow, but no. That could wait. It would be too rash a decision right now, he should wait until you could both decide on such a thing together when you were thinking clearly. He didn't know if you'd be okay with that, so he decided against it, but the thought definitely lingered in the back of his mind.
- While his hands trailed all over your body, touching and groping everywhere, feeling what's HIS, he revelled in the feeling of your hands on his body too. He knew you only had eyes for him, and that you were just as irritated by Valentino's actions as he was. That only spurred him on, and next thing you knew, the two of you were barely even clothed in the back of his limo.
- Vox had you practically in every position in the back of that limo. At first, he was hovering over you, and it was sweet, close, passionate, then, he turned you two around so he was drilling into you from behind, rough, sinful, and messy. He liked this position, it gave him the perfect view of your bodies joining together as he gripped your hips, while you gripped the car door for stability, your shared heavy breaths fogging up the windows.
- Finally, he had you in his lap, riding him. He sat up, your chests pressing together as he took this opportunity, so close to you, to leave deeper bites and marks, now extending from your neck to your jaw and shoulders, even low enough to your tits.
- The limo was definitely shaking.
- After a couple rounds, you both decided you had made enough of a mess for one day, and had successfully gotten both of your frustrations out of your systems.
- A knock at the limo window caught Vox's attention, and he rolled the tinted windows down a tad, quickly covering you with his shirt. It was Valentino on the other side.
- "You've been parked out here for a while. Thought you were busy?" he said in a snarky tone. Vox couldn't help but smirk slightly, quickly looking for your approval, before rolling the window down a tad more, exposing the mess you two had made, as well as you, now only covered by Vox's shirt, which thankfully covered enough, only leaving you exposed from the collarbones up and the thighs down, but left just enough on display for Valentino to very clearly see the art gallery of hickeys and bite marks that littered your body.
- "We were busy."
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Adrift With You - A Frankie Morales Series - Chapter 3
Summary: Heading away on a work re-location, Frankie embarks on a flight, but unbeknownst to him, his life is about to change forever. For starters, he will need to fight for it; harder than he's ever fought for anything else before.
Marooned on an isolated island in the middle of the ocean, still recovering from an addiction, his chances of survival are bleak; but he’s not alone on the island, and soon he’s running towards a different kind of life - a life with fellow survivor, Jude, fighting right beside him every step of the way.
And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?
Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude
Chapter word count: 4.9k
SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST
☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻
Chapter notes: Frankie and Jude both step onto the plane not knowing what awaits them. Descriptions of injury, blood, death and a plane crash.
Enjoy! 🖤
Chapter 2
Present Day...
Overhead storage on a plane is a pointless endeavour.
They say your bag has to be a certain height and width, and you go through that whole rule abiding rigmarole of sticking to a tiny bag - despite not being able to fucking pack anything of use actually in it - and the sucker still doesn’t fit in there just to spite you.
Jude shoves it with her fist, practically punching the bag in whilst having a mild breakdown in the process until she’s composed herself and slumps into the window seat and buckles in, tasting wisps of her hair in her mouth.
She’s seated at the very back of the plane; the last row that backs onto the emergency exit in coach, and will give off the subtle feculent stench of the toilets right behind her throughout the flight.
The faint cries of a grumpy toddler down the front somewhere can already be heard droning, even over the hum of the engine as the plane is loaded up with bleating passengers ready for the eighteen hour long flight.
It was an easy decision to make; an unconscious autopilot. Jude had some savings and decided to quit life for a time out and take a break from the aftermath of Nate's continuous infidelity. The destination was purely left to the spin of her old, antique globe on her desk, having racked up nearly forty-nine countries already in her career, and wherever her finger landed, that’s where she’d go.
It landed on Madagascar and that was it, decision made. Ideal opportunity for some relaxation, to forget that shit-stain Nate, and maybe take some photographs whilst she was at it. Or maybe she would just mellow out on a hammock on the beach for two weeks, forgetting the world and plying herself with strong drinks until she forgot her own name. She'd carefully packed minimal camera gear into her carry on regardless - old habits die hard and her camera was like a limb, essential.
She checks her phone one last time before switching it into flight mode. The constant barrage of calls from Nate has died off somewhat since her stark warning in the café, but he’s still haranguing her by text message, or Whatsapp, or via any other social media platform he can try and reach her on to just ‘talk to me’ or ‘give me another chance, please babe.’
But holding strong only works if she is strong. And that's questionable right about now.
The temptation to listen to him to explain his deceitfulness all over again has been there swilling around the sides of her bandaged heart and rational thinking, and rather than risk the fallout of letting the scumbag wheedle his way back in with his Machiavellian falsehoods - like he usually does knowing Jude's backbone is already at breaking point - it’s best to scarper and seek some clarity in a foreign sunny land and have some much needed alone time to regroup and plan the next course of her life, without Nate.
Plan B always sucks, but you definitely have to have one, right?
She scrolls through her Instagram feed; her thumb hovering over Nate’s profile, hesitating and then clicking on the unfollow button, followed by the block button. If there had been a button to Taser in the balls, she’d have clicked on that one too.
Jude's seat is moderately comfortable, with just enough legroom for her to sit cramped up without developing DVT. She glances around and observes fellow passengers stowing their carry-on luggage in the overhead compartments, some enduring the same frustrating battles as she did, and settling into their seats.
The air inside the cabin carries a distinct blend of aeroplane air - a mix of recycled ventilation and a hint of the disinfectant used to clean the aircraft. The subtle scent of lemons fills her nose.
She hears the gentle murmur of the flight attendants as they go through their pre-flight routine, checking the cabin, demonstrating safety procedures, and preparing for take-off. The occasional announcements over the intercom remind passengers to fasten their seatbelts, stow their tray tables, and turn off electronic devices.
The empty seat beside Jude is soon filled with a middle-aged woman embracing a plethora of gossip magazines to keep her entertained during the flight, to which she's thankful for; polite, strained conversation with a stranger that has absolutely nothing in common with you, and an unhealthy penchant for dried cheese crackers, is never an entertaining feat at thirty-odd thousand feet.
Jude simply puts in her ear buds and sets her phone’s Spotify playlist to uber loud, waiting for the classic rock tunes to fill her ears and block out anything else, and sits back in the seat shutting her eyes and grinding on her teeth.
Further down the plane in business class, Frankie drops his worn backpack at his feet whilst he fishes out the contents of his jeans pockets, glancing down at the oversized seat he’s to be glued into for the next eighteen hours or so.
Plenty of legroom is waiting for him and it’s a surprise, and a relief, that he won’t be cramped up in economy. Dustin had done him a real solid.
He zips up his pack after depositing his iPhone - which flashes up a number of unchecked voice messages from Eddie - his wallet and all manner of random things guys feel the need to carry in their denim pockets, such as crumpled bar receipts from months ago; a night out with Benny and Will and a few games of darts, and ultimately the last time he had seen Will.
Frankie’s mind casts back to them talking about how things were different now that Tom was no longer around to hold them all together. How there were less of them now to have bar nights with now that Santi was shacked up comfortably in Australia with his lady and her millions, and how Frankie had also inadvertently exchanged more of those nights out with the Miller brothers for nights alone in his Pickup with bags of powder as his only company.
As Will scratched away at the layers, trying to push his way in, conversations had turned sour about how different Frankie had seemed as his addiction metastasized; Will regarded him with a concerned look in his frosty blue eyes.
I’m worried about you, Fish. This ain’t like you.
It’s just a rough patch. I’ll get through it. I’m fine.
You’re not fine.
I’m handling it. It’s none of your business-
It is my business. I care about you. We all do. Does Carla know what's going on?
I'm dealing with stuff. It's my problem.
It stops being just your problem when it starts affecting everyone around you. We care about you, Fish. I care about you. But I can't stand by and watch you self-destruct like this.
Then fuckin' don’t! Frankie had simply snapped at him.
It followed a heated argument, a threat of spilling over into the physical when Benny warned Frankie to leave, and held his brother back as Frankie cussed him out for interfering. He usually wouldn't talk to a friend like that, the way he so belittles himself at times, and he knows that Will meant well, somewhere in the recesses of his befuddled mind.
But that’s the cost of addiction, in the end you end up with nothing and no-one.
In the aftermath of Will's expression of concern, an uncomfortable gap settled between them. It was a silence charged with the weight of unspoken truths, an acknowledgment of the growing distance that addiction was creating between Frankie and his friends. And Frankie left the bar that night to retreat into the safe confines of his own slow destruction.
In the depths of Frankie's life, an insidious force had taken root, spreading its tendrils like an unseen cancer. Addiction, the silent invader, had established its presence in the once quiet corners of his existence. It had started subtly, unnoticed - a small, hidden malignancy that grew and thrived beneath the surface.
The root of origin unknown, but the talking therapy he was forced to endure had convinced him that things had all finally gone to shit when Tom had died on that damned mission. The cherry on top of a mountainous cake of years and years of unresolved trauma carried over from his time in Delta Force.
Leaving behind the regimented world of Special Operations felt like stepping into an uncharted wilderness, once a bastion of discipline, had unfolded as a chapter of his life marked by growing solitude and abhorrent self-discovery. The decision to leave the elite forces wasn't an easy one, but it was one they all had embarked on together. Shit just got too dark.
The camaraderie that had defined his military experience became a distant echo, replaced by the isolating silence of civilian life. The transition was akin to leaving the tight confines of his cockpit and soaring into the open sky, uncertain of the turbulence that awaited.
As Frankie navigated the challenging terrain of civilian life after leaving Special Ops, his reliance on the Veterans Affairs system for support became a crucial aspect of his journey. However, what he encountered was a bureaucratic landscape that often left him feeling more stranded than supported.
The VA proved to be nothing but a labyrinth of paperwork, long wait times, and un-clippable red tape. Despite his sincere efforts to seek help, Frankie found himself grappling with a system that seemed ill-equipped to address the complexities of his post-military challenges.
He couldn't help but lean into the bitterness at how easy Will and Benny seemed to have found the transition. On the outside, their lives seemed far more rosy compared to his. They had each other to lean on, after all.
The system that was supposed to provide a safety net for veterans transitioning back to civvy life became a stumbling block, adding an extra layer of complexity to Frankie's journey. In facing the inadequacies of the VA, Frankie discovered an unexpected coping mechanism of his own which seemed to work far better - cocaine.
But it was one that spiralled out of control when he came back from Santi’s stupid mission that left him even more lost. In something he once dabbled in for a fun high now and again, albeit causing him to lose his license when he was caught smuggling it in for some extra bucks, soon became a daily habit that chipped away more pieces of him.
The bond that Frankie had sorely missed since leaving Special Ops seemed to rekindle in his connection with his sponsor Eddie for a while. Their alliance wasn't forged in the crucible of combat but in the shared struggles of recovery. The Special Ops ethos of "leave no-one behind" found new meaning in the context of addiction, and Eddie became the embodiment of that commitment.
But as Frankie delved deeper into the challenging journey of recovery, a subtle shift occurred in his relationship with Eddie. The once unwavering connection began to fray as Frankie found himself instinctively starting to avoid the very person who had been a crucial anchor in his battle.
The avoidance didn't happen overnight. It began with subtle excuses - a missed call here, an unattended meeting there. An extra shift in the workshop that soon piled on top of his already weakened shoulders. Frankie soon learned that if he kept busy, kept tinkering, kept his mind on something else other than the constant yammering thoughts about coke, then he wouldn't be tempted to give in.
Thus finding his own solution to his addiction, which was akin to slapping on a flimsy plaster over a deep gunshot wound - it would only be a matter of time before it fell off.
I care about you. But I can't stand by and watch you self-destruct like this...
Will's words linger in Frankie's memory like an indelible mark besmirching all the memories that he'd filed away as once good. He shakes his head despondently as he recalls the concern that seems to have faded into ignorance now.
It feels like a long time since Frankie's heard Will’s voice or seen his face. He bites down on the inside of his cheek.
He finds loose change, a shit ton of lint, and his sobriety coin in his pocket too. A small but potent talisman, speaking volumes about the milestones he's conquered on his journey toward recovery, even if it feels like a lead weight in his pocket most of the time.
It nestles comfortably in the palm of his hand, a tangible reminder of the strength he’s summoned to break free from the chains of addiction, even if he doesn't know where that strength has come from. Frankie knows without a shadow of a doubt that he isn't strong. Never has been.
The coin, worn smooth by the constant touch of Frankie's fingers, bears the tactile evidence of countless reflections and countless moments of considering just throwing the towel in. It doesn't seem worth it in the quiet masochistic tendrils of his thoughts.
He squeezes it in his palm tightly, feeling the indents of it bore into his skin. Six months and what does he have to show for it?
He runs his hand over the sparse layer of fluffy stubble covering his tired face, a physical manifestation of the days when self-care took a backseat to the relentless pursuit of an unyielding high, and he's just let it grow out now.
His jaw sets firm before shoving the coin back down into the trenches of his pockets and placing his bag in the spacious compartment above his head.
Frankie sits back in his seat buckling up, and a peppy stewardess, doused in way too much perfume that makes the insides of his nostrils sting and itch as he inhales, approaches him and enquires about what he would like to drink immediately after take-off.
He orders a beer and a bottle of water and sits back staring down the aisle from his single, plush seat, people watching as the other passenger’s faff around with their laptops and briefcases as they fill up the cabin, which makes Frankie feel even more like he doesn’t belong, in his scuffed jeans and faded salmon shirt and worn in cap.
As the plane begins to taxi, he looks out the window, watching the terminal and other aircraft pass by. The distant sound of luggage being loaded onto the conveyor belts and the low hum of the engines create a sense of morbid anticipation; a feeling that causes his fingers to shake as he balls them into a fist and takes a calming breath.
The cabin lights dim slightly as the plane approaches the runway, and Frankie settles in, ready for the long, arduous journey ahead.
Hours later into the flight, Jude stirs in her seat with the heavy feeling swelling in her bladder again, and excuses herself to her fellow passenger, who is crunching loudly on the unbuttered crackers, so she can get up to pee.
Well aware that this is the fourth such instance and that she’s probably annoying the fuck out of the woman, but when you gotta go, you gotta go.
The plane judders slightly as she makes her way towards the tiny cubicle that smells of stagnant piss. The mirrored panel above the sink reflects a condensed version of Jude’s image. She catches a glimpse of herself - perhaps a bit dishevelled from the hustle of the day's travels thus far - but something else lingers in her worn features.
Her reflection is sleepy in the small mirror and the heat of her cheeks paramount as she’s been overheating in her sweater whilst snoozing. She removes it, leaving her in a flimsy t-shirt, and sits down on the toilet staring at her battered Chuck Taylors and thinking idly that it’s probably time for a new pair soon.
Washing up, she glances at her reflection again, revealing the innate vulnerability she’s been trying to hide that hits her. It’s been a minute, since the break-up, that she really stopped to take herself in.
Pronounced tears well up in her eyes. She leans against the cold, metal interior of the cubicle, her breath shaky and uneven. The subtle vibrations from the plane match the tremors of her own emotional upheaval as it pours out of her, seemingly from nowhere.
Vile images of her and Nate in happier times plague her thoughts like sharpshooters as it all crumbles away. It was all bullshit wrapped up in pretty crepe paper bows.
The metallic surfaces seem to close in around her, mirroring the claustrophobic ache shoved in her chest where a heart once beat. Tears stream down her face, leaving streaks of mascara like war paint on her cheeks. The mirror, once a reflection of ordinary moments, now bears witness to the shattered remnants of her composure.
Jude’s hands tremble as she clutches at the sink, knuckles turning white with the force of her grip to stop her from collapsing onto the floor and screaming unrestrained like the toddler down the front of the cabin.
Her body convulses with the force of her sobs as she throws her arm over her mouth to muffle them, fingers clenching into fists, nails biting into the palms of her hand. It's a gut-wrenching, primal expression of heartache, the kind that leaves no room for pretence or restraint.
The slow, tumultuous purging of that asswipe out of her blood. Or at least the start of it anyway. It pulses through her veins like poison. Disbelief, heartbreak, and the indignant rage that comes with the sting of betrayal flood through her limbs; a future paradise shattered into a million fragments as she envisions punching the mirror in - she can’t bear looking at her face anymore.
The restroom seems to close in around her, mirroring the suffocation she felt when confronted with the undeniable truth fucking into another woman in their bed. A truth she had always known, but perhaps ignorance really was bliss for a while.
And where has that got you?
With shaky determination, she wipes away the evidence of her breakdown, acutely aware that the scars of betrayal will linger long after the tears have dried, a harsh velocity of time she’ll have to endure and navigate through.
Once back in her seat, her sweater stuffed in the overhead with her crushed bag, Jude glances out the window at the billowy dark gray clouds that are passing underneath the plane mirroring her own self-contempt.
She sees lightning flashes pulse like a camera now and again and rolls her eyes with a deep lacerating sigh. The plane rumbles once more.
It better be fucking hot when we land...
She asks for a bottle of still water from the passing flight attendant to refresh her cottonmouth, but they return with sparkling instead. Before she can ask for another, the attendant disappears off, hurrying down the aisle out of sight, and she’s left to make do with a tight frown.
Sparkling water tastes like licking TV static; such a pointless endeavour, but Jude drinks it anyway, the woman sitting next to her eyeing her oddly as she makes disgusted noises whilst swallowing it down.
Frankie sips at his third beer quietly as he watches a lame comedy film, that doesn’t even make him snicker once, on the screen to the right of his seat; his headphones plugged into it so only he can hear the sound.
He watches without any real enthusiasm, trying to pass the inevitable boredom that accompanies most of the commercial flights he’s endured in his life.
He’s still feeling jangled and all manner of anxiousness swills around him about being somewhere hot and isolated sooner rather than later, so he can throw himself into some work with helicopters - which admittedly has been something he’s looked forward to since Dustin mentioned it - and to forget his troubles and woes for a short time. A rest and recharge of those Morales batteries that have been running on empty for a long time.
His mind does that ominous thing of wandering into territories it shouldn't just to mess with him, and he realises he hasn’t heard from Carla at all since she’d left. He wonders if she had indeed been back to his apartment and cleared it of all her belongings; erasing herself from his life as though she was never there to begin with.
He’d arranged with Benny to be there, albeit through short, clipped texts, to ensure she didn’t cut up his clothes or destroy his shit like some warped revenge fantasy that women harbour when they feel they’re slighted.
It seems weird to think of her now as merely an ex too. At one point Carla was his better half, he’s sure of it. The half of him that propped him up. Frankie engages in unspoken conversations with the ghosts of his past love. Imaginary dialogues played out in the confines of his mind, expressions of sentiments left unsaid.
And it still seems odd to put it together and work out where things had gone so drastically wrong between them to the point they had ended up so far off course.
But he knows why. Knows it’s him. It's all his fault. All she did was have the audacity to love and care for him, and that makes it all the worse somehow.
He finishes his beer a little later, feeling slightly gassy as the bubbles rumble under his sternum, and it's soon cleared away by the pretty steward who offers him another, but he declines reaching for the bottle of water instead and holding in a fizzy belch inside his cheeks until she leaves.
The plane jolts again; this time a little heavier and the steward grips the back of the seat in front of him to stay upright. The smile on her face reassures him it’s just normal turbulence and she then continues on her way with his empty beer bottle back down the aisle; his eyes drop to her ass absentmindedly, tightly bound in her skirt.
Frankie's just swallowed another mouthful of water when the plane judders harshly again and this time his stomach goes with it completely. The seat belt sign flashes on and he looks up at it and its faint yellowing light seems like it’s burning slowly into his retinas.
While Frankie maintains an outward appearance of relaxation, a mild concern lingers in the background. The rhythmic bumps of turbulence become a reminder of the unpredictable nature of the skies; a reality he’s intimately acquainted with from his days in the cockpit himself.
But his eyes, scanning the cabin for the reactions of fellow passengers, reflect a nuanced awareness of the situation. The subtle tightening of his grip on the armrest betrays the reflex of a seasoned aviator attuned to the gradations of flight, even when occupying a passenger's seat.
The plane shakes harshly again and the heavy, grating sound cuts through all rational thinking.
It takes him a moment to register the sounds of screaming, and the sensation that the plane is now descending - and descending real fast.
Frankie looks down the aisle and sees the pretty steward with the ass on the floor in a heap before he’s blinded by the oxygen mask falling into his face.
The seat belt sign flashes on and although Jude’s already buckled in tight, the passenger beside her stands up and heads off towards the toilet, she can only assume. There’s always one, isn’t there?
Sighing, she rests her head back against the headrest and shuts her eyes, letting the loud guitar riffs fill her ears.
The unexpected jolting and commotion as though the plane is dipping forwards a mere few seconds later causes Jude to yank her ear buds out of her ears, one of them rolling out of her grip onto the floor, to be met with the sounds of screaming and hysteria.
The heavy resonances of the turbines and engines whirring seem to shriek behind her at a deafening pitch, and the smell of aviation fuel and burning wafts into her nose sharply.
Jude pushes against the seat in front of her with both hands for support as the plane takes a nose-dive forward on a dangerous slant; a wayward drinks trolley shifts past her sight down the aisle, clattering and making a hell of a racket as it goes.
The oxygen mask flaps in front of Jude’s face and she’s not sure how long it’s been there. She scrambles for it, panicking and fastening the elastic around the back of her head. Her fellow cracker addict is still nowhere to be seen.
Jude glances quickly out the tiny window again and the sight of the ocean coming up fast is the last thing she sees before it all goes black.
When a plane hits a body of water, it invariably breaks apart.
The fuselage splits, the wings crack, practically disintegrating for all intents and purposes, and the tail often breaks off completely. Essentially, it shatters fully on impact and often the fuel tanks will explode.
When a plane hits water, an incompressible fluid, the water hits back at it and causes the aircraft to decelerate. That's all fine and dandy for the plane, but your body is still "flying" at the same speed as the plane was before it hit water, and well... objects inside the fuselage becoming embroiled in a kinetic tornado, are about to make you decelerate too, in a very violent way.
Let’s do the maths, shall we? The equation F=maF=ma simply means that for constant mass, FF is proportional to aa, and so a bigger aa also means a bigger FF. A bigger FF doesn't sound too good, does it?
Did you get that? No, me neither. Basically, you’re up shit creek without a paddle.
Most passengers on the plane will die from blunt head trauma. If they’re lucky it will be quick. A quick bop and you’re gone bye-bye so to speak. Some will be fortunate enough to pass out before their inevitable death through sheer terror alone - lucky bastards.
If you haven’t died before or after impact, your chances of survival then become bleaker as time wears on. Head trauma is the most common fatal blunt injury in a plane crash, followed by injuries to the chest and the abdomen.
Thirty-six per cent of head injuries, and twenty-seven per cent of chest injuries will have associated cervical and thoracic spine fractures, respectively. A slow, painful death would await you as you suffer from internal bleeding. And that’s before you drown.
Remember, you’ve just crashed into the ocean, bub.
It’s all very doom and gloom isn’t it? But Frankie’s flight is currently in pieces, some aflame, and he’s swimming against the current, equally difficult because the impact has created a swirling whirlpool that keeps trying to pull him under within the vicinity of the main body of the plane.
His long arms are striding away and he splutters and coughs as he’s pulled under constantly despite being an adept swimmer.
His skin is burning around his neck; he can see a slick, shimmering gloop mixing in the water’s surface all around him and the stench of aviation fuel and barbecued skin fills his nostrils.
He turns back to see the water literally on fire, and is convinced he can hear some distant screams for help, before he dives under and swims away from the fires before he burns up with them.
His ears are ringing, his sight is blinded continually by water splashing over his face whenever he surfaces for air, and as he swims away to a safe distance, that’s when the shock bites into his body and begins the slow onslaught of trying to drown him.
The freezing stab of the water is what rouses Jude awake and she’s still fastened in her seat; the water pooling at her ankles, soaking into her battered Converse and rising.
She’s unaware at first that blood is blinding her right eye, as she rips off the oxygen mask and claws at her seat belt to unbuckle it frantically.
Oh God! Oh God! Oh Shit!
Jude glances across the aisle and half of the cabin is missing; she gasps out as she can see a couple of the passengers slumped over in their seats, but the rest of them are gone.
She can no longer hear the screaming toddler piercing her ears.
The water is rising fast and is covering her thighs now. She stands up on jellified legs and rushes to the passenger opposite and tries shaking him awake, but he’s unresponsive.
She tries another, but it’s fruitless. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knows they’re already gone, but it takes her body a moment to catch up. She wipes at her face and the slick, ruby red that coats her palm panics her further as she observes her trembling hand that now looks like she’s wearing a scarlet coloured latex glove.
But there’s no time to dwell on the root of that blood loss now; the water is already up to her hips.
She wades towards the side of the fuselage in big, quick strides, climbing over seats with limp bodies strapped into them, and takes a deep breath before she jumps into the water on the other side of the gaping tear in the cabin.
Jude cries out as she feels something sharp rip at the back of her calf as she plops ungracefully into the water and begins to swim away, grunting and gasping with sheer terror.
Swim! Swim, come on!
She can smell burning and turns back momentarily to see flames on the water in the distance making the horizon wobbly and opaque through the smoke. She tries to call out for help, but she’s certain no-one is alive to hear her; her mouth keeps filling with rancid sea water as she splashes about frantically.
Jude bobs around on the ocean’s surface, her arms and legs kicking and keeping her afloat and calling out again for help. She shouts as loudly as she can, but is met with no response.
Whimpering, she latches onto a nearby piece of scorched debris and clings onto it for dear life. She wipes her face again and more blood rinses off in her hand. She feels all around her head and the searing pain makes itself known at the top side of her right temple in her hair line, just above her ear.
Shit!
Bewildered and panicking further in the process, Jude tries to scan the horizon behind her to see if there is anything, anyone; a hint of land perhaps that she can swim towards.
The thought of barely floating here on the ocean’s surface holding onto a small piece of rubble to keep her suspended births all sorts of nightmarish outcomes that her brain processes in a quick blur; the most notable being a shiver of sharks circling her below because they can smell her blood from miles away.
Her body is buffeted by the currents, causing her to grip onto the makeshift float desperately until she can't feel her fingers anymore, but the numbness doesn’t register.
Her heart races, pounding against her chest. In the midst of the chaos, a primal instinct for survival kicks in. She scans the vast ocean, searching for signs of rescue, grappling with the overwhelming uncertainty of her situation.
The taste of salt on her lips, the sting of the wind against her face, and the weight of her own mortality converge in a disorienting mix of sensations that render her still, frozen in her own paralysis of fear.
There’s nothing as far as the eye can see; absolutely nothing at all except for the burning plane wreckage that makes Jude’s wide eyes glow in terror.
To be continued...
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#pedro pascal x reader#frankie morales x reader#pedro pascal#frankie morales#pedro pascal characters#francisco catfish morales#frankie morales x ofc#frankie morales x f!reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales angst#frankie morales smut#frankie morales fluff#triple frontier fic#jett's writing#adrift with you series
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beta molly and the way she weeps when you pop your knot in her. withering gasps and sobs, pretty green eyes tinged red with a blush down her soft freckled chest….
✧ tags : omegaverse, alpha!reader, gn!reader, reader has a penis and knot, reader is in rut, betas have faint scents, lotsa pet names, knotting, 18+
✧ wc : 1.2k
✧ a/n : hnngjgjfsdhkjsdjnflksjdfkdlfsdkksdflkfsgvsjkdfdl. its fine
.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆
"You're alright, sugar. Just breathe."
Molly gasps as your cock swells inside of her. Her voice is soft, prickly against your ear and warm as she whimpers. The soft curves of her body melt against your as you're slotted together, the red-head snug and comfortable in your lap.
You feel her face press against your neck, nose nudging against your scent gland and you groan. You know it's not easy for her, no matter how much you stretch and prep her, to take you. She always insists on it.
You think it's something to do with the fact it's the one thing she doesn't have.
It's what Molly is always most insecure about. Not being an omega, that is. You can't blame her, not after Dutch all but tossed her aside. Makes her antsy. She's skilled at catching even the faintest hint of an omega on you. Weeps herself into a fit whenever it gets too strong and demands you stay next to her for a few days to wash it out of your scent.
You can feel it whenever you reach your ruts, her own desperation to prove her worth—prove that she can be good and take it.
She's a pretty sight when she insists to take your knot. Always. There's many times you nearly gave it to her. Green eyes and hands fisted in the front of your shirt and all determination and longing, as if she's not the most delicate little woman in the world. For the longest time, you let her down gently with a firm, but kind 'no'. You'd spent your ruts with her, fuck her to your hearts content, but knotting was always off-limits.
And then just a few days ago, you helped Karen get somewhere safe to ride out her heat. You may be a lot of things, but you're not so much of a scumbag to leave her to own devices. A scented coat across her back and a horse ride to nearby inn later. Didn't lay on her, of course - but you did wait it out with her for a while. You came back and reeked of nothing but sugary liqueur, nothing like the soft, light scent of strawberries and clove you usually do.
Molly's been less than happy with you about it. Not helped by your rut coming in only days later, jump started by a woman who ain't her. After some crying, she'd demanded of you again but with more more fervor than normal.
And you're not stronger than the woman you so adore weeping in your arms about it, so you promise it to her. But only after making her cum enough times to make her stupid with it.
Even after though, the fit is tight. You've stretched her open, made her cum so many times she was near limp in your lap - but she still insisted. And she is still so so tight.
You can feel the muscles in your abdomen strain as Molly's pussy pulses around you. You take a shallow heaving breath, hands on her hips as the base of your cock starts to swell.
Molly's insides are softy and sticky, silken against your length. You're too big for her. Her body isn't made for it. She can hardly take you as is on days you're not like this.
But you try to keep your composure anyways. Ignore the baser part of your instincts aching for her inconceivably. Aching to pop your knot and keep her full, make her head useless for anything but thinking of you.
"All ye damn alphas are so," She shudders, burying her face against your shoulder. Her words are clipped by a moan, subdued and wanting "Uselessly big,"
You laugh against her. "I'm sorry, baby. Real sorry,"
She knows you're not, probably just as much as you know her vitriol lacks teeth. It's hard to take her seriously when you pull away and look at her. Her expression perfectly debauched, wide green eyes red at the rings - weepy from stimulation and rogue-red lips smeared from stolen, needy kisses.
When you feel Molly sink all the way down to the base of your cock, knot tight - you gasp against her neck. Fangs prick with urgency, to mark her and claim her. Sink yourself so deep into her wet, willing cunt she couldn't run if you tried. You have to remind yourself to keep your instinct at bay.
"Don't hold back from me," She huffs, somehow sensing that you are. You stare at her love struck, eyes starting to glaze over and take in just how pretty she is. How pretty she will be even sooner with your knot stuck in her. "Don't you dare."
"You're playing a very dangerous game, sugar."
"I don't want to beg any more for what I want. You always say you wouldn't make me do that, not like Dutch," Her voice is attempting to be demanding, but falls flat on it. It only ends up sounding desperate and needy and so perfect for you to sink your teeth into. "Give it to me. I want it."
"You're so spoiled," You remind her with a breathless laugh. "A good girl like you doesn't know how to be anything else does she?"
She shakes her head and tucks wraps her arm around your shoulder. You grunt, almost pained as you feel her intentionally squeeze.
"Alright, alright—you made your point. It's gonna hurt."
"I want it, damn it."
"Okay," You close your eyes and hold her hips "Okay, sweet girl. Be easy, please?"
She nods, satisfied - most obedient she's been all evening and it makes you want her even more. You like when she acts that way, like a spoiled princess. You don't know what part of you that is. If it's the Alpha in you, all wrapped in biology and blood or just you. The you that desires her for all she is so hungrily it makes your chest ache.
"Fuck, baby." You shake and you grip her tight. You want her so bone-deep you can feel it in the back of your skull, in your gums. Your fangs protrude against your lower lip. Buzzing, all the muscles in your body go taut like a bowstring. You can feel yourself swell and twitch, just as you can feel Molly respond to it every time. "Feel what you do to me? That's,"
You pant, trying to keep your sense. "It's all yours baby."
Molly crumples against your lap like those are the words she's wanted to hear most, more than anything in the goddamn world. She whines helplessly for the first time. You push your knot into her in one hard thrust. Willing and eager, and that's what gets you. Strokes your ego enough to make the base of your cock swell and swell and swell, and you push until you can't be anywhere but inside. You can feel the way the air gets punched out of her lungs right after, a shaking shuddering breath making her whole face turn pink.
The strain of it is too much, but she takes it like she has everything in the world to prove. Big, water-rimmed eyes and shaky little moans but still insistent.
She whimpers soft and girlish as you ease your knot into her and make her take to you. She accommodates you so well, pussy so perfect like it was made just for you.
All yours, like everything else about her should be in a perfect world.
Your body works against your mind as you cum inside her, thick ropes shooting up with no where to move from. Your cock stays still like that, twitching and hard as you let out a deep and long breath trying to regain some composure.
"Gotta stay like this for a while sugar," You hum, uncharacteristically checked out.
She giggles contentedly, pleased - happy sighing as she remains draped around you, soaking in the attention. "I already know that, you know."
You nod, adrenaline making the blood rush to your ears as you hum. You let your big hands hold the back of her head, drowning her in your affections as you kiss her freckled shoulder. "Just makin' sure."
.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆
#guild gossip#molly o'shea x reader#rdr2 x reader#molly o'shea smut#rdr2 smut#d.rogues love letters#omegaverse cw
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❥project d (m)
↳ With a nice enough guy who’s just a little too rough around the edges for your parents liking, and a best friend who put you up to him (albeit a tad unknowingly), surely things can’t possibly get more complicated for the local illegal street racing squad.
Except, between racing for pink slips and bragging rights, there’s Emperors leader, Jeong Yunho.
kim hongjoong x fem!reader / jeong yunho x fem!reader — Initial D/street racing!au, unresolved romantic tension, exes to lovers, infidelity, angst, explicit sexual content [20.5k wc] cws: themes of smoking, drinking, & cheating throughout. the person getting cheated on is a scumbag!! mild physicality from a man to reader and more than mild physicality between two men ❱ light dom/sub dynamics in the beginning, penetrative sex (no barrier method), creampie, light choking, themes of possessiveness throughout, dirty talk, risky sex, public sex, oral sex (m).
“Ignore it.”
A simple enough request to oblige as Hongjoong's hand stretches out and over your body towards the side of you where your phone resides, only conveniently tossed there out of haste upon things between the two of you getting the better of you.
History getting the better of you.
Two, three more vibrations of the call alert cycle before it finally quiets, the man next to you hums with his face pressed into the pillow just before turning to face you with a devilish grin — as if a man having just won a prize, of sorts.
Perhaps he had done just that, at least, in this moment in time.
“I can't ignore him forever,” you sigh, back against the mattress and staring up towards the dingy, unpainted ceiling of this particular hotel that you and Hongjoong had become all too accustomed to.
The scent of far-from-fresh linens and a mixture of cigarette and other such smoke cascading through the small room — far from allowed but in a place like this, and for the rate that it goes for, it's what you'd expect. Housekeeping will do what they can, but there's only so much.
It's clean enough, but more than that, it's private. Part of you wishes coming here with him made you hate yourself as much as you think it's supposed to, because maybe then you'd stop.
“He's my boyfriend, after all.”
“He's a fucking tool,” he groans, finally sitting up beneath a single layer of white sheet and reaching to his left off of the side of the bed for his pants — long since discarded and not long after the two of you had arrived, at that. You can only presume the man to be reaching for his cigarettes, and unsurprised when it's precisely what comes into your line of vision as he sits back with his back against the headboard to light it — you watch him, every movement he makes no matter how small or unimportant it may seem. Taking in the details of him: short, platinum bleached hair with his fingernails painted black — two or three chipped, from what you can tell — and most likely from working on his car at some point over the week. “Who cares what he thinks? When are you going to leave him, anyways?”
“It's not that simple,” you answer, under your breath and slightly dejected at the turn the conversation has taken.
Because you know that you should feel bad, and yet you don't, but the fact that you don't sort of does do the trick. You wonder how terrible one has to be to falter morally to such a degree.
“I care about him.”
“The fuck you do,” Hongjoong bites back with a snort through his nose, smoke pushing out and towards the sheet that remains pooled around his waist. “If you did, you sure as shit wouldn't be here right now.”
Rolling your eyes and turning from him finally, it's likely that he's right. Somewhere, somehow, surely that is the only logical explanation.
But as complicated as things may be with your boyfriend, they're just as, if not more so, with the man next to you.
Goodbye's are hard, it's half of the reason people do everything in their power to avoid them.
Even to their own detriment.
“Don't be mad at me,” he adds, noticing the way you pull your eyes from him. “You wouldn't be fucking your ex still if things we're all sunshine and roses back at home. That's just the facts.”
“Do you have to do this tonight?” you say with a groan, turning back and onto your side to face away from him. It's then that you feel Hongjoong stir from behind, putting his cigarette out into a beer bottle on the nightstand and settling back down lengthwise along the bed, with the flesh of his chest pressed against your bare back. With one hand of his trailing down the exposed flesh and settling at the small of your back as fingers curl up and around the dip of your hip, you sigh into the feeling of his touch, once again starkly aware of how undressed you are once again, and how this will likely result in him fucking you for the second time tonight.
“I miss you,” he whispers after a while, lips ghosting gently across your exposed shoulder as he plants kisses there between words. “Leave him.”
“And do what? get back together with you?” you answer suddenly, with a tad bit more snip than you had really intended, but feeling the way his fingernails begin to curl into the skin of your waist, you need not worry about the reception of the response.
Chances are, he probably likes it.
The words come out so quietly that you can barely even hear them over the sound of the long since ignored television, only really used to help drown out the pathetic sounds of you succumbing to this man once again. “Do whatever you want, just not him.”
It's a weird sense of foreplay, the way that the two of you engage in conversations about the man in question — your partner — always seeming to get Hongjoong riled up sexually in some sort of sick, twisted way that you can't quite fathom — possibly the possession, possibly some sense of having won something over the man every time you agree to meet him like this — two competitors who have long since been rivals for far too long, with too much bad blood and no end in sight, either.
So when you left Hongjoong, and shortly after started dating Yunho, it was a punch to the gut and the ego — seemingly only quelled by the joy of having you cum around his dick a couple of times a week unbeknownst to the other party.
Shifting slightly, as if wanting to maintain some air of innocence and coincidence to it all — pressing your behind back and against him only to find that what greets you is a familiar hardness — Hongjoong's kisses into your shoulder intensify, nips and suction against the flesh where he had previously been ever so innocuously been touching.
Giving into him never was difficult, you wonder if you'll ever have control over yourself with him.
Hand slipping down to position himself better against you, the whimper that leaves your lips as he presses back inside of you for the second time that night is pitiful — grin forming across his mouth as he hears the utterance of you once again allowing yourself full compliance for him — his hand comes back up to snake along your side as he gently rocks into you, first settling for a moment atop your breast to thumb over the nub before continuing the journey up and around your throat to hold there tightly as he picks up his pace with a grunt into your ear from behind.
“You're mine, right?” Words echoing from his mouth and into your ear from just next to it, your body involuntarily clenching down around him giving you away more than anything you could say ever could — Hongjoong squeezing tighter around your throat at the feeling of you submitting to him in all of the same ways that he's always liked, that you've always liked — a game the two of you would often play deep within the throes of your romantic relationship. “You always came the hardest when I acted like I owned you.”
“Joong—“ another pitiful whimper at the sound and feeling of him encompassing you, especially given that he's right in his assessment of you.
Hand leaving your throat and continuing up again, two fingers prying between your lips to press into your mouth and lie flat against your tongue, Hongjoong's pace into hastens, fucking you harder than even the time earlier in the night — obviously with something to prove, now — some sort of motivation behind his actions; jealousy, angry, hatred.
The animalistic desire to have and own and need, perhaps.
“He fuck you like I do?” he finally asks in spite of already knowing the answer. There's a reason you keep coming back. “Know everything you like the way I do? Make you cum as hard as I do?”
And with fingers shoved deep into your mouth you can only groan at the words as your body threatens to release you from the contempt of a building orgasm — Hongjoong surely feels it with the way he slows and stills deep inside of you with a whine from you.
“Didn't say you could cum yet, did I?”
It's all you can do to beg for it, grinding back and against him for any sense of friction that will hopefully tip you over the edge that he's not allowing for you. Hot breath scented like cheap beer and cigarettes pressed into the shell of your ear as he holds your body flush tight against his as if to now even allow you the ability to escape his grasp — not that you'd want to, or have any intention to — but rather for what it represents to him.
That yes, this is a game that the two of you engage in consensually, but perhaps deep down for him, a confession of sorts, as well.
Hongjoong pulls his hand from your lips to quickly wrap it against your throat again, ever so slowly withdrawing his cock from you and almost completely before delivering you back an even more tortuously slow drive back inside — so slow that you feel as though you can feel every dip and curve and bulge of his shaft against your walls — the two of you don't play like this so much anymore since the dissolving of your relationship, and Hongjoong's willingness to reintroduce it now feels pointed and a bit like a man rushing to grasp a hold of something that he feels as though he's losing completely.
The break up wasn't on bad terms, and certainly appeared far from devastating to Hongjoong from what you could tell. He did start drinking more, though, and racked up a hefty DUI about a week after.
“You wanna cum, baby?”
You nod quicker than you think the words finish leaving his mouth, much to his amusement. Hongjoong repeats yet another frustratingly slow drive into you as he sets the condition for your orgasm.
“Tell me whose it is,” he groans, the warm hug of your pussy pulling on him equally as much but far more able to maintain his cool. “Who owns it, who does it belong to, baby?”
a sharp inhale, breathing still constricted by his hand keeping you firmly in place and against him, and with a heavy exhale you say the words he's been looking for since the conversation started.
“You, it's yours, I'm yours— fuck, Joong, please—“
You can't see it, but you can feel the curl of his lips against your ear as he grins at the breathy admission, kissing you delicately against your temple twice before whispering how well you've done and how good you are as he picks his pace back up. A handful of hard, pointed thrusts back into you and you come undone around him all over again — the tight squeeze of you subsequently bringing him to his orgasmic demise just after as he buries cock as deeply as he can to cum inside of you.
And one of your favorite things about the man — your too-wild-to-ever-meet-the-parents ex-boyfriend who drives the custom paint maroon RX-7 — is how no matter how insane he is, he's always kind and loving to you. so, as Hongjoong gently pulls himself from you, raining kisses on every inch of exposed flesh he can manage to get his mouth on, the only words spilling from his mouth being those of praise; how good you are, how beautiful you are, how amazing you are — some times, you think he might slip and tell you he loves you in such raw, intimate times.
And sometimes, you wonder why it is the two of you ever did break up.
Phone vibrating again, the screen illuminating to show once again for your boyfriend to be attempting to get a hold of you, you feel Hongjoong still from behind you as he catches notice before rolling back and away from you and most likely, in search of another cigarette.
Picking the device up, with a tone small and shy but with an attempt at playfulness, you dare make the attempt at a joke on the matter. “Can I answer it now?”
But with silence following shortly after as the vibration cycle carries on, you're met with the sound of a lighter flickering once, twice, three times — before an exhale, then a voice laden with smoke and maybe even a hint of disappointment, if you look hard enough.
“Do whatever you want.”
Getting into the illegal street racing thing wasn't exactly something you had in mind, and truthfully, sometimes you had a difficult time tracing back just when it had started with the way things took off in a bit of a whirlwind.
It's particularly due to the fact that you're not a racer yourself, that sometimes has you standing roadside at meets, contemplating the how's and why's of your whereabouts. With no interest in purchasing a project of your own, it started as a sort of hobby interest of yours and Chaerin's — your best friend of six years with a bit of a penchant for trouble as the years progressed. Never anything substantial or too risky — no drugs beyond the extremely rare instance, no theft — and sure, the illegal street racing thing in and of itself being of legal dubiety, it's not the worst thing a girl in her early twenties could find herself wrapped up in, that's for sure.
Besides, Chaerin had a bit of a respectable eye for partners. Boyfriends leaning far into the realm of honest and endearing, even upon dating within the circle of cars, the sort of 'bad boy' reputation for them that one would likely assume upon hearing of teams of men engaging in such activities in the dead of night — while occasionally true, after two or three tag along’s of yourself with your friend, you'd quickly come to realize that the majority of them were simply guys. Nothing special or out of the ordinary, most working through college and probably a bit more than they have to in order to fund their rather expensive hobby, some rich, trust fund kids with no issues affording whatever it was that they wanted to soup up their cars with — and when the dust had eventually settled, it was of little shock to yourself that you ended up somewhere in between.
You remember the night as if it was yesterday, only a year or so back at most anyways, Chaerin explicitly informing you that he was to be played with, and not locked down.
It seemed easy enough when you met Kim Hongjoong, at least.
A little rough around the edges being an understatement: handsome and from a rich family now a couple of years estranged but still not entirely cut off from the family wallet, sometimes you could swear that you could still make out the ways in which his sheltered, prissy upbringing that he had long since attempted to bolt down under lock and key would come through — a heavy smoker, a lighter drinker, and now stuck living in a ratty apartment just a ways out of town with his teammate, Seonghwa.
So, you had agreed, because most certainly this wouldn't be the kind of man you'd fall for, anyways. A girl has needs, however, and you quickly found Hongjoong to be more than willing to go above and beyond for them in more ways than one would likely consider to be present in a friends with benefits sort of arrangement. His willingness to do any and everything you desired sexually, evolving into exploration of sorts, you found that it happened almost naturally in the way he would begin staying over some nights instead of running home, bringing you dinner before playtime turning into going out together for dinner, and when Chaerin began noticing you showing up to car meets from the passenger side of Hongjoong's RX-7, albeit not entirely pleased with the development, she wasn't necessarily against it, either.
Your parents on the other hand, were an entirely different story.
If Hongjoong came off as rough around the edges to yourself, you could only imagine how he came off to your parents, and after one dinner with all of you together, the imagining was no longer necessary — spending the better part of an hour tearing into you about your choice in men; how Hongjoong was going nowhere in life, a deadbeat with no aspirations, a smoker, a drinker, and despite having not disclosed it, father dearest pulling no punches in just what it was that he thought about the whole illegal street racing thing.
A point of contention in what had naturally and easily transformed into a relationship with the man, more than quick hook ups and take out dinners — but there was romance and genuine caring — something special about the way that Hongjoong looked at you that you knew to be sincere.
And perhaps you were too weak-willed to manage it, the constant barrage of opinions and negativity from your family about the man you had chosen, and perhaps the relationship all too young to really weather the storm as it was, so when you told Hongjoong that the two of you should just remain friends, the disappointment was evident, but it wasn't the end of the world.
It was a little bit the end of the world, though, when Yunho came into the picture.
Moving into town a month before yours and Hongjoong's relationship ending, you had already found yourself rather well acquainted with the man in all of the worst ways: every terrible, off-putting version of Hongjoong that you figured to be buried deep down within him in hopes of never resurfacing, seemingly being all of the defining features of Jeong Yunho; mouthy, loud, and far too into himself for anyones good, really, you had only met him a handful of times at races before calling it quits with your then boyfriend, but Yunho had already long made a case for himself in squirming his way into your bedroom as Hongjoong vented about teammates losing races — and even worse, their cars — to the man in the black EVO and his team, Emperors.
How you ended up here, exactly, on a quiet Thursday night during a meet with Yunho to your right as he talks to one of his friends about a new backseat modification he's been considering for weight to his car, suppose that's where it gets a little murky.
Oh, and also the fact that you were just with Hongjoong the night before, too.
As the thoughts finally fall out of your mind, it's the feeling of a large hand on your bottom that jolts you out from them in totality, first looking down then just as quickly back up to your boyfriend.
A habit of getting handsy in public, like some bizarre expression of property owned and wishing for the entire world to see it, it had been a conversation more than three times by this point, so much so that you figure it best to simply give up on it.
“Come on, I told you I don't like that,” you whisper, it is not lost on you how willing you are to bend yourself as to not embarrass him all the while he cares little about granting you the same luxury.
With a slightly crooked smile, Yunho grins down at you before leaning forward and kissing you on the forehead. “It's just Mingi babe, he doesn't care.”
“I care.”
Yunho rolling his eyes at the snide response, pulling his hand from you entirely as if to withhold affection for your poor behavior, your eyes can't help but find Hongjoong well across the parking lot as he engages with his friends among his own team, Spiral.
Meeting your eyes, the interaction is brief, and guilt ridden all of the same.
In fact, Yunho's disinterest in your boundaries had already resulted in a verbal altercation between the two more than once, and that's not even including everything related to on the road.
Of course, Yunho had charms, otherwise leaving would be easy to do. Earlier on, especially — perhaps you a little too fresh off of your break up and more willing to be swept up and away by the tall, handsome, guy with dark red hair that your ex kind of hated but 'maybe he isn't so bad,' you remember thinking to yourself the first time he catches you out and about one random day — asking you to dinner later that night, paying, and giving you the best dick, perhaps, of your life.
You'd find that it doesn't take much time for the layers to peel themselves back, as people with much to hide typically find it difficult to keep up the ruse for all too long, but perhaps losing Hongjoong in your life — and especially for the reasons as such — a larger hole was left than you had initially imagined, now being filled by the rich guy who lets you pay for everything despite having money, doesn't respect your boundaries, and is often found to be in questionable locations more times than you'd like to really acknowledge.
One of the reasons you sort of don't feel bad when Hongjoong texts you late in the afternoon and asks if you want to meet at the usual spot.
But for whatever reason it is, you find it hard to let Yunho go — that even still, there are times late at night when your hand fits impossible perfectly into his as the both of you lie out on the lawn just outside of town and gaze up at the stars together — him telling stories about where he used to live and what he did before he got into street racing and him actually taking an interest in you and your life beyond just showing you off as the pretty little thing he gets to put his dick into — as it often feels in relation to him.
That makes it difficult, as affairs of the heart tend to be. It's never really so cut and dry.
As the end of the night rolls around, Chaerin comes to greet you with her boyfriend, Yeonjun on her arm — and her belongings diligently being held by him as well — both with smiles on their faces as head lights begin to pop on and engines start revving around them. Yunho plopping into the drivers side of his car, Chaerin leans over the open car door with her arm across to cushion her chin, and much to Yunho's visible disapproval.
“Long time, how've things been?”
A long time because Chaerin hates him and refuses to go to mutual gatherings that you invite him along to.
Yunho's eyes first darting to you before settling back to the blonde girl hanging from his car door window, the man leans forward to grip it and shake it free from her annoying grasp before shutting it and opening the window to continue on the conversation. “Fine. You guys going out tonight or something?”
Much to your surprise, you arrived with Yunho with every intention of leaving with him, so the fact that you now are not comes as news to you, and the shock across your features is not wasted on your best friend and her boyfriend.
“You brought her, you're not going to take her home?” She asks, attitude laden in her tone and no effort to conceal it whatsoever.
Yunho snorts, nodding his head towards you as he answers. “Tell your friend not to act like such a bitch in front of my friends, maybe i'll be more inclined to be nicer to her.”
“What are you even talking—“
“I'll take her home.”
A familiar, pitchy, voice, to you especially, piping up from behind the group of you and the twist in Yunho's features making it all the more evident as Hongjoong steps up between you and Chaerin — black and white leather jacket lazily zipped halfway up across his chest and incredibly fitted, lightly destroyed black jeans hugging his thighs. Brushing a hand through silver hair, he nods to you as if it's no big deal.
And as if he didn't have his face between your legs just last night. “What's up?”
“Nothing,” you answer just as carelessly. “Need a ride home, apparently.”
“Awww, little Joongie is so sweet,” Chaerin pipes up, slinging an arm up and around Hongjoong's shoulders in such an aggressively animated way that it nearly brings the man toppling down on top of her, but Yunho only rolls his eyes at the friendly display while huffing out a “whatever,” as he turns the car engine on with a rumbling vibration.
“We'll talk about this tomorrow,” he adds, flipping the car into reverse and rolling up his window before driving off to who knows where, and leaving you to pick up the pieces of how so many interactions between the two of you end up this way.
You sigh, less of anger or sadness, but rather the exhaustion of having become so used to this treatment — it not being the first time your boyfriend has done such a thing, after all.
Letting go of Hongjoong, Chaerin judges him in the arm with her elbow. “I could have taken her, you know.”
Sometimes you wonder if she knows, if she's caught onto the games the two of you play together when you think no one is looking, or none the wiser.
A relationship ended by word of mouth only, but really, nothing having really changed.
You and Hongjoong picked back up sleeping together only a week after breaking up, and never really stopped since. You can't help but wonder if she can tell in the way the two of you interact, how comfortable it is, how unchanged it is from back then.
“It's fine, she's on the way anyways.”
You're not, and everyone knows it.
“Alright well,” your friend begins, tying long, blonde hair into a tight ponytail and slinging an arm over her lovely partner to pull him along. “Be safe you guys, have a good night. Try to get her to break up with her shitty boyfriend, would you, Joong?”
A sly grin as a parting gift and she's off before you really have a chance to say anything to the comment. Hongjoong opting for silence on the topic himself as the rest of the cars clear and the two of you find yourselves the last ones on the cement — the scent of burned rubber and exhaust still lingering heavily in the air, the man next to you shrugs, looking almost sympathetic of you and your situation — a situation that you could just as easily find yourself out of, but sympathetic nonetheless.
Walking over to Hongjoong's car, he steps around to open the passenger side door for you first before circling back and allowing himself to fall into the drivers side of his own.
“Really wish you'd leave that dickhead,” he starts, ignition growling to a start and the inside panel of the car illuminating a bright blue — all custom work, exactly to his personal liking. “Only reason I still have a passenger seat is for when I have to pick up his slack.”
It feels a little bad when he says it like that, as if he feels the need to stick around, by your side, to play boyfriend #2 because #1 does such a dog shit job of it himself, and rather than abandon you to play with the hand that you've been dealt, Hongjoong stands by to try to make each sting at the hand of Jeong Yunho just a little bit easier to deal with — until you manage the strength to do what you know you need to and leave him once and for all.
“I know, sorry,” you mutter under your breath, feeling it necessary to offer the apology. Hongjoong pulling onto the road and driving off and into the night, one hand on the steering wheel, he glances over at you twice before grinning just slightly. “It's fine, you don't have to apologize.”
Turning to look out of the window, eyes still as glued to you as driving safely might allow, he replacing his right hand on the steering wheel with his left, allowing his right to settle onto your clothed thigh with no intent beyond comfort. “Hungry? Wanna grab something?”
“It's two in the morning,” you chuckle, the lightness of the sound bringing a much brighter smile to the mans lips even in spite of your accuracy regarding the situation. “Okay yeah, we can go back to my place? Seonghwa is there but it's fine.”
“It's late, I should probably just go home.”
You don't mean for it to sound so dejected as the sounds leave your lips, a culmination of so many things stirring around in your head all at once in regards to Hongjoong and Yunho both — you think of all of the ways that Hongjoong has always been so kind and good to you, even in the midst of a purely sexual relationship with him, where Yunho finds himself seemingly unwilling to meet you even halfway on simple things or gestures anymore — a man who won his prize and no longer finds it necessary to carry on. His dues paid, and once again, Hongjoong picking up the slack.
And as if some major cosmic joke, it's not lost on you how much your parents adore Yunho.
Never having learned of the street racing thing, on top of being much more cleaned up and presentable in appearance than the alternative — it's easy for Yunho to pull off the guy next door look, and for all intents and purposes, it is him, but in all of the worst ways, and the worst possible version of it. Arrogant and egotistical and unforgiving. Unloving. Manipulative, and in so many ways, cruel.
Like two personalities swapped from the bodies you would expect to find them — Hongjoong with a mouth on him for sure and probably incapable of uttering a sentence without an expletive in it, still kinder and more loving to you than perhaps Yunho has ever been.
And worse than that, you suspect for more than one reason that Yunho is meeting with an unidentified woman this evening. The unmentionable fact that everyone seems to know about but no one talks about, and no one tells you.
But suppose that may be fair and square, after all.
As Hongjoong's car rolls to a gentle stop in front of your parents home, you know what it will result in in the morning — them chewing you out for once again being out with the man that they loathe so much, but unbeknownst to them, the one willing to get their daughter home safe and sound — you let out a heavy exhale as he turns the ignition off and the both of you open car doors to exit from his and greet the chilly, spring air awaiting you.
Watching as the man settles himself against the dark red vehicle full of labor, love and more than all, money, you can't help how natural it feels to bring your arms up and around his neck — and happy to greet you, his own falling downwards and wrapping lightly around your waist to pull you tighter against his torso as foreheads close the space between them.
“Getting daring,” Hongjoong sighs just centimeters from your mouth, referencing the rather public display of affection despite it being the absolute dead of night and not a soul to be seen within eye shot.
“Thanks for taking me home,” you ignore his words in favor of your own and with a sly tone to them at that, as if hoping that the man may have the audacity to make a move on you like this.
But you know Hongjoong well, and what he's into, and enticing him into this takes little to no effort at all.
Shifting to press the top of your thigh against his crotch, feeling the already blooming hardness beneath his pants, you're able to watch in real time as his expression turns slightly lust-fueled as he pulls the door open to the drivers side once again and seats himself on the side of the chair with his legs hanging out. pulling you along with and down towards his face, it's then that he finally kisses you — as if making enough of an effort to do the best he can to conceal these sorts of rendezvous between you — it's hard and needy, all teeth and little tongue as he devours you while you settle on your knees between his own and his hands turn downward to fumble with the belt and button of his jeans.
“You and your risky sex,” you tease, waiting for him to expose his dick for you, but Hongjoong huffs out a laugh in his haste, as if well aware of it himself.
“I'll fuck you against the car if you want.”
“What if my parents saw?” you answer with a quirked eyebrow as he finally frees his length from the confines of his jeans, hand quickly wrapping around him and delicately stroking him.
“Hope they tell Yunho.”
“You're so annoying,” and with a roll of your eyes, you press yourself forward to wrap warm, wet lips around the girth of his cock. Fingers immediately reaching up and tangling into your hair with the first dip of your head along him, you know that in scenarios like this — Hongjoong's favorite thing being having you in places and situations he has no business taking you — he'll get handsy, and he'll cum quick, and for this, both are ideal.
“God, fuck, you feel so good,” Hongjoong chimes with a groan, fingers tightening in your strands just a bit more along with the noticeable raise of his hips up and into your mouth as you bob along his cock in timed, rhythmic strokes — you think it can't be longer than a minute or two before he's whimpering expletives and praise from between his lips as you take him deep into your mouth to swallow his load down as he comes. Pulling back off of him and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, the man leans down and kisses you on the mouth — an open mouth kiss, not at all chaste or unwilling to taste himself or what you've just done on you.
“I want to see you Saturday after the race.”
You hate to ruin the mood with the information, but suppose honesty is the best policy even in scenarios where you're watching the man you're cheating on your boyfriend with tuck his softening dick back into his pants.
“Think...I have plans with Yunho that night.”
It's meek, partly because you hate saying the words to your ex, and also partly because with the way that Yunho is, who knows if that will even happen.
But Hongjoong takes it in stride as you pull away from him, standing to clear yourself out of the way so that he can pull his legs back into the car and get ready to see you off for the night.
“Well, think about it,” he begins the thought casually, and you think he may actually end it off that well if not for the sharp inhale that follows afterwards. “I'm sure you could think of an excuse, something like 'oh, I want to get fucked by my ex-boyfriend who has a sexier car and is also way better at driving than you are, you fucking loser.' would do the trick?”
Leaning down once again, you kiss Hongjoong on the mouth — quick, but bringing your hand up and to the side of his head as you do so, the touch lingers long after the kiss ends, the man leaning into it as if offering a newly unlocked form of adoration and intimacy not previously felt tonight.
“Get some sleep,” you mutter, finally pulling from him.
Hand through short blonde hair, he smiles back at you with a nod. “Anything for you, darling.”
And watching him drive off into the foggy night, all you can think is how could your parents be so wrong.
“Hey sweetness—“
Barely jarring you from your sleep, the words comfort your ears in some strange way, like warmth itself uttered despite not even being sure that you're actually awake, actually hearing them — the dipping on the other side of the bed, however, doing a much better job of making you aware of the fact that this is, in fact, real life and not a dream. Groggy and attempting to bring yourself to cohesion, you roll onto your other side beneath warm blankets — the light from the morning, or early afternoon, which ever it is you can't be too sure just yet, shining through barely pulled apart, black out blinds.
The first thing you notice being how unfamiliar the man smells to you.
Hair damp and gently sticking to his forehead — evidence of a shower taken prior to visiting you, it's something that you've sort of made peace with, gotten used to.
But you've been to Yunho's enough to know that this isn't what his shampoo smells like.
Of course it's not fair for your chest to twist the way it does at the realization, Yunho's hand coming up to delicately press strands of your hair away from your face with a smile before leaning towards you and planting a kiss to your exposed forehead.
“I brought breakfast.”
Your lips curling upwards, a reaction that you can't help in relation to the kindness that your boyfriend extends to you, you're reminded of all of the ways and reasons that you feel for him, and even now, stay with him.
You figure no one's perfect, after all. We all have our faults.
And some of them, you share.
“Mom let you in?” you whisper, voice laden with sleep heaviness as you stretch arms out above you. you already know the answer, because your mother adores him and is ecstatic every time the man makes the effort to show his face around.
“Of course,” he chimes with another toothy smile, proud of himself for the accomplishment in having won over your parents. “Brought them something, too.”
Sitting up in bed slowly, nothing but a loose tank top and panties clinging to your body, you finally glance out and towards your computer — screensaver touting a comforting time of the day for you to see; 9:22, and you're happy that you haven't overslept despite still being tired from being out so late the night before.
Line of thought serving as a reminder of the activities also having taken place.
“We don't have to rush down,” Yunho adds as his hand begins it's slow journey between the sheets and beyond that, between your legs. Long, thin fingers dipping underneath your panties and wasting no time finding their mark between your folds — you sigh into the touch, and you'd be lying if you had attempted to tell yourself you weren't craving some release after the activities of only a handful of hours prior.
Perhaps fucked up on a number of levels, willing to give Yunho the pleasure of getting you off as a result of Hongjoong's hard work earlier.
But that also kind of does it for you, as well.
It flashes across your mind briefly, knowing but not knowing Yunho's whereabouts while you were out and about with Hongjoong, so maybe it was what you deserved — someone's sloppy seconds — melting into the touch your boyfriend offers as he shifts over and between your legs, pulling the sheets from you and beginning the hasty work of his pants button. You reach up, hands gripping at his black t-shirt to pull him down and against you as he barely catches himself with a palm against the mattress before crushing you — both of you laughing against each other lips at the clumsiness of just wanting to feel the other in a rush with little time at your disposal — Yunho kisses you like there's no time at all before dipping down towards your neck and sucking into the sensitive skin just below your ear.
“Lemmie fuck you with your panties on,” he whispers, finally freeing his cock from his pants just enough to grant him the ability to take you.
“Please,” you whine, his fingers already pulling at the sides to give himself access before your answer even rings out from between your lips — the scent of where ever it was that he had been now overwhelming your senses, it feels so bizarre how your body physically reacts to it — the knowledge of him being in places or arms where he shouldn't dare be and now coming back to you — tip of his length already pushing into you with a heavy exhale from both and bottoming out fast despite his length and your lack of prep, it's something that you've never quite gotten used to even after all of these times together, and especially in the circumstances of a quickie.
But god did you want it bad right now.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” another admission from him straight against your ear — breaths hot and humid on your skin, your eyes clamp shut at the feeling of being so filled by him just as he makes his first withdraw and push back inside of you — a hard, rough, snap of his hips that has you reeling and moaning out for him already.
This was typically how you and Yunho worked out your problems.
A few minutes down, your hands wrapped into your boyfriends hair, you whimper against his neck to fuck you harder, and feeling the nearly sinister curl of his lips you know he's happy to oblige the request — two, three harsher fucks into you, Yunho quickly slips the hand not supporting his weight over you down and between your legs to rub into your clit harshly to get you to cum around him.
“Yeah baby, cum for me,” he whispers into your ear, words cut up and jerked out from the own movement of his body. “Cum with me baby, I'm close.”
“Fuck, Yunho—“
Whining out for him as your muscles clench around him, orgasm taking you with the help of his handy work and his words (and perhaps a bit of the memory of Hongjoong cumming down your throat a few hours prior), you cum hard — hands coming down to grip into his shoulders, Yunho pulls up to fuck you harder and faster as he chases his own just behind you — the evidence of your nails digging into his clothed skin evident across his features as a splash of pain flashes across — but it's only seconds later that he groans, burying himself almost painfully deep inside of your cunt as he paints your walls with his release — then two more lazy, shallow thrusts into you before gently lying himself atop your torso with a heavy, contented, sigh.
For whatever reason, it's times like this especially that you want to ask him where he was.
Why he has to go elsewhere — if it's you, him, or a culmination of the two that causes him to do the things he does.
When you hear your phone vibrate on your nightstand just as Yunho slips out of you and pushes himself back inside of his pants, you know it's Hongjoong.
“When are you going to break up with that guy, anyways?”
Not the ideal first thing to hear upon meeting up with your best friend, but not surprising, either, after the events of the night before.
Setting your bag down on an empty chair at the table, Chaerin watches you intently with her arms crossed in front of her chest, one eyebrow perked up as if somewhat judging even though you know she doesn't, not really.
Both of you in lazy t-shirts and jeans, a far cry from the bit of dress up each of you tend to play when it comes to car related events, you realize it's become rare that the two of you meet this casually — with how busy both of you are with your respective lives.
“Nice to see you, too,” you chime back sarcastically as you sit yourself down at the table. grabbing towards a menu, Chaerin pops her hand out to stop you from taking it.
“I already ordered, don't change the subject!”
“I hardly think ordering food at a restaurant is changing the subject...”
“You know he's cheating on you.”
Hearing the words sting, but not as much as they would if you weren't doing the exact same thing, you guess.
Clearing your throat uncomfortably and looking around in an attempt to find any prying eyes or ears that may be listening in on your conversation, you lean across the table towards your friend with a sigh. “I don't know that, Chaerin.”
Sitting back in her chair with a huff, the blonde rolls her eyes. “Give me a break, you're smarter than that, you know. You're fine with it?”
“I mean, I don't know.”
“Beyond that, he treats you like shit anyways, what the fuck was all of that last night? Just abandoning you at the meet?”
“I knew plenty of people there who could take me home,” you quietly offer as argument, much to Chaerin's dismay.
“Gotta be honest with you,” she starts, eyes pulling away from you momentarily as if unsure of the right way to go about the rest of the conversation. “I don't think he really cared all that much about whether you did or not. Let your ex take you home so he could go fuck some other—“
“Chaerin—“
“I'm just saying.”
Silence befalling the table just as wait staff arrive with the previously ordered food, you exhale heavily at the sight of everything sprawled out in front of you, and the suffocating knowledge of everything just discussed.
Hardly much for making an appetite.
“I need to tell you something,” you pipe up suddenly, and much to your friends surprise. you watch as her eyes slowly pull towards your own, waiting for the bomb you have to drop, and boy, is it a doozy, too.
“I've...I've actually been—“
“Oh, what the fuck, hey.”
Once again, piped up out of no where, and you're sort of beginning to curse living in such a small city where so few restaurants reign as the supreme places to go — you already know who awaits your eyesight before ever turning towards him, but it's the sight of him dressed in his Spiral gear that is what takes you by surprise more than anything.
That, and the fact that you were just about to tell Chaerin about your ongoing involvement.
“Now, why are you everywhere?” Chaerin greets with a smile before playfully nodding in your direction. “You stalking your ex?”
“She's got enough problems without the whole crazy ex-boyfriend thing, i'll spare her the trouble,” Hongjoong snorts just before sitting himself into another empty chair at your table.
It's awkward — because you feel as though everyone knows a secret but it can't be spoken. Perhaps that is the case, after all. Too many secrets.
“She was just about to tell me something and now you came and ruined it, thanks a lot,” your friend jokes just before scooping a fork full of meat into her mouth. Hongjoong turns to glance at you — as if knowing fully well what it was that you were about to disclose to the woman — and with a devilish grin and an elbow on the table to cradle his chin: “Oh really? Do tell.”
He definitely knows.
“It's...nothing. Girl talk.”
You make the decision to bring your hands into your lap, for fear of them visibly shaking should you bring them up to eye sight.
“I'm sure it is,” he replies with a tone that you can only describe as knowing. “Anyways, just picking up food for the guys down at the shop — Seonghwa's been working nonstop on the car for tomorrow so he can be ready to beat your shitty little boyfriend.”
Chaerin laughs, a woman with no particular horse in the race aside from hating that man, and with Hongjoong standing back up, you send him off with a hello for Seonghwa in particular.
A race planned for over a month now, and not one that you've been looking forward to, either. Yunho doing what he does — challenging drivers from opposing teams to races for their pink slips, and it's unsurprising that anyone from Spirals would ever turn down the opposition — if you get challenged by Emperors, you have to accept.
Not accepting is as good as losing, anyways.
You wonder why it is that neither Yunho nor Hongjoong have ever challenged one another — bringing it up one evening over a couple of beers with your partner, and Yunho's only answer being that he doesn't even want Hongjoong's 'shitty RX-7.'
The irony being, of course, that Hongjoong and Seonghwa drive the same make.
Phone vibrating from your pocket shortly after Hongjoong leaves, you pull it from your jeans to illuminate the screen and view the notification gracing the lockscreen.
>Aunty H: gonna tell your bestie you're still getting dick on the side? she'd probably be thrilled lmao
Looking up towards your friend across the table for a split second before unlocking your phone to reply — as if she somehow has the ability to know what it is that the man said to you from the back of your device, you feel as though every eye in the entire world rests on you in this moment. Perhaps not the best time for this conversation, after all.
>You: I don't like keeping the secret from her, idk. she hates Yunho for it when i'm doing the same thing.
Hongjoong begins typing back so quickly you believe him to simply be sitting in his car in the parking lot just outside to have this conversation in the moment.
>Aunty H: she hates Yunho because he's a piece of shit and on top of that he can't keep it in his pants either. not the same. speaking of, I want to see you tomorrow night after the race
>You: I told you I have plans with Yunho
>Aunty H: you fuck him since last night?
Rolling your eyes, you pause for a moment to think over your response. It's really none of his business, but given the circumstances — suppose everyone's sexual whereabouts be everyone else's business.
>You: don't do that
>Aunty H: i'll see you saturday
It doesn't feel good, the circumstances you've allowed yourself to fall into, but at the same time — the promise of what Saturday night may hold — after the sounds of tires screeching and adrenaline pumping through every vein subsides, what either man may have in store for you, depending on how the evening turns out.
And perhaps, it's time to get it the fuck together and make an actual decision, too.
More than anything, it's the familiar scent of exhaust, fuel, and burnt rubber that you've come to find comforting, a sense of home in the strangest sense.
Dozens of cars lined up on the outside of the road — a long, winding trail of only two lanes, one each way — that is tonight’s destination. a sheen of wetness on the ground from rain much earlier on in the evening, not ideal driving circumstances for most, but for the more experienced drivers — the ones that experience an even higher thrill from the danger, the unexpectedness of it — it's ideal. Hongjoong specifically, touted as a master of the pin hair corner drift, and especially out of Spirals, you know it to be precisely the sort of weather that he wishes to be racing in.
But tonight isn't his night, it's his best friend, Seonghwa's.
A tall, beautiful man with long, black hair and often clad in all black leather, black jeans, and his hair tied up into a half ponytail — he's far from the kind of person most would expect to find at a place like this — currently bent in half and over the engine of his matte black RX-7 making the finishing preparations for his race against your main squeeze.
With the leader of the crew standing just beside him, of which you are well acquainted.
And on nights like this, you belong to Emperors.
Race nights turn into strictly 'friendship aside' events, at least, once Yunho and Emperors started coming around. A group of street racers all intermingling and enjoying one another's company once before, now heavily segregated and pushed apart — the need to choose sides becoming apparent once Emperors began racing people for their cars, and subsequently, Spirals member and long time friend of Hongjoong's, Jongho, losing his to Mingi.
So now, as you with Yunho to your side pass by Hongjoong, Seonghwa, and the rest of Spirals with your own little band of Emperors tagging just behind, a few glances are all that are exchanged between the lot of you, with eyes between you and your ex lingering just a bit longer than some may even notice at a glance.
Yunho's hand slipping down from around your shoulders to your waist only to linger there for a moment before trailing down and to your ass — right in Hongjoong's line of vision, you snap your head up and towards your boyfriend to tell him off for far from the first time for such a grievance—
Only to find his attention far from you, and rather, on that of the man who only a few months prior called you his own, himself.
Following the tall man to his vehicle and settling yourself against the side of it as he settles himself inside of the drivers seat, you spare yourself the bother of looking him in the eye to reprimand him for the behavior, simply looking out and towards the scene before you of people laughing, enjoying themselves — people with nothing to lose tonight, only here to enjoy a show, and hopefully, everyone making it out in one piece.
“How many times do I have to tell you—“
“Yeah yeah, I know, why's it such a big deal to you? a lot of women would like having me show them off, ya know.”
“Yeah? a lot of women?” you say with a snide bite to your tone, finally turning to face him. “Guess you'd know, wouldn't you?”
Raising his eyebrows in surprise at the retort, Yunho pauses before curling his lips into a smirk. “Anything else, princess? I've got shit to do tonight, like take your little pals' friends' car.”
“Why do you have to be like that with him? With them?”
As much of a surprise as it is to Yunho — the sudden aggressiveness to you that you never having displayed towards him before for all of his transgressions — it's just as much a surprise to yourself. Knowing fully well that the outcome of enough of this could easily result in the dissolution of your relationship with the man.
And you wonder, if that's a price you're willing to pay. You also wonder, if this is effectively you slamming your hand down on the self-destruct button.
“I'm not being like anything,” he snaps back, ignition of his car roaring on and gently pushing you out of the way so that he can shut his car door. “Back where I'm from, anywhere where people actually race, people drive for pink slips all of the time. Those are the stakes. It's not my fucking problem that everyone here wants to play carebears and rainbows and no one actually wants to drive.”
“You're such an asshole, you know that? Why can't you just fit in? Assimilate? Why does everything have to be about your fucking ego all of the time?”
“Well babe,” he sighs, pressing his car into drive and effectively communicating to you that the conversation is over — something that you're well aware of already with calls for the drivers to come to the front lines. “You wanted to be with me, and you still are, so what does that say about you?”
Silence takes you, chewing on the inside of your lip — you do wonder.
“Get your attitude in check by the time the race is over,” he adds just before rolling off. “I have a much better use for your mouth in mind than all of this bullshit.”
With that, your boyfriend slowly rolls off and towards the starting line, glancing over and across the cement, you watch as Hongjoong pulls up from Seonghwa's drivers side window for his friend to carry on doing the same, and as if feeling your gaze upon him, turns to meet eyes with your own.
It's ill-advised to be seen mingling in a place like this, during a night like this, so instead, you're barred to stolen glances through midnight fog and cigarette smoke.
Stepping up with your jacket clutched inwards towards your chest, you stand alongside another Emperors driver, Yeosang — a shorter guy with a wicked birthmark adorning his face — as Seonghwa and Yunho meet up at the starting line in the dead of night, awaiting the referees announcements to begin preparation. First, it's a rundown of the rules for the race; very little of them, given that it is illegal street racing, but effectively boiling down to 'don't intentionally do things that put you or others at higher risk of injury or death,' then it's how the countdown to start will begin shortly. You meet eyes with Yunho — the car closest to you — a stare cold and disinterested and lacking any emotional care for you at all, so when he pulls his eyes away and back towards the wet road ahead of him, your eyes wander further out and towards Seonghwa, who also greets you.
A silent nod that the two of you share, as if agreeing on a preferable outcome for the evening.
The truth is that Jeong Yunho's reputation certainly be fitting of him: a good driver, skilled, and with a fast car, at that.
Seonghwa was good, great, even — but technically outmatched — and part of the evil that shrouded Emperors reputation, as well. A sort of 'pick on someone your own size' mentality certainly lost on them.
Yunho had never challenged Hongjoong, and for that, many thought there to be a reason.
With the buzzer sounding for the impending countdown, your hands gripping the steel of the barrier erected between the viewers and the street in front, you inhale sharply the scent of the dewy night sky, and all in all, can only hope for each of them to make it out in one piece.
Then, the familiar scent of a certain cigarette evading your senses.
Three, two, one, go.
Tires screeching, the two pull off lightning quick, and you're disappointed in the fact that from where you stand, you'll see very little of it until the end — people already beginning to move towards the finishing line to have the perfect view of the outcome, you feel the familiar presence of not one, but two people coming up on either side of you: Chaerin, and Hongjoong, naturally.
“You're late,” you nod to your friend, her nodding in response.
“Purposefully, I don't need to watch Emperors all circle jerk each other off pre-race, seen it enough times as it is.”
Hongjoong snorts at the comment from the other side of you before taking a drag of his already lit cigarette as it sits between freshly painted fingers.
“What do you think?” you ask him, tone lower and less playful than the one you had just had with Chaerin a moment ago. The man hums, looking up and into the night sky before stepping back again with intent to head towards the finish line as well.
“Yunho will probably win,” he states, matter of a fact. “But it's fine, we have cars. Paint job on his was expensive though so that'll probably hurt.”
“He has a lot of money in that car,” you sigh disappointingly, and Hongjoong nods. “Yeah, he does.”
“We should go,” Chaerin chimes with a nudge into your arm.
The thought of Yunho taking, and taking from the people and places that mean so much to you without giving much of anything back weighing heavier and heavier on your heart and soul with each passing day, you find.
Seonghwa figures that for a race like this, the fact that it's an uphill track works out in his favor — with the roads wet and gravity defying, top speeds peak relatively low, which means that despite Yunho having far more time and money into his car, what it will really come down to is skill, and knowledge — two things that the man with the ponytail feels he has leaps and bounds of over his opponent. a course he's done countless times, and Yunho, only a handful since moving here, it lends itself to being the course that people test, especially when it comes to the hairpin drift.
It's Hongjoong's favorite, too.
Hitting the shift and snapping his car forward with Yunho just behind, the two take the first turn — not an especially difficult one, but Seonghwa notices that already he feels the road give way a bit beneath his vehicle at the speed in which he's driving as he momentarily loses the back end of the car — it's not a loss, nothing that his opponent can gain on having immediately straightened out for a bit just past it — but Seonghwa takes note of the fact regardless, being well aware of the kinds of twists and turns that await them just a bit further up the road.
For Yunho, however, the turn is of little concern to him, happily trailing behind his opponent for the time being as he grins at the sight of the much lesser experienced driver just ahead of him lose it in the tail end of the corner. 'A good sign,' he thinks to himself, not that he was worried to begin with — considering this to be just another easy win for his team to collect under their belts.
The next corner proves to be much tighter, and much more difficult to navigate — for Seonghwa, at least. Slamming his shift to hit the drift at just the precise moment, heart leaping into his chest as he steals a second to stare back into his rear view mirror to check on how Yunho is handling it, it gives him little comfort watching the way that Yunho navigates the track with his vehicle, and with a lump in his throat, slams his shift once again for the next oncoming turn — a hard right following the previous hard left — and with it being a relatively short track with no long straightaways after the last hairpin corner for Yunho to gain on him with an objectively faster and more powerful car, if he can manage to avoid allowing his opponent the space to overtake in one of the turns, or worse, lose control of his car and give Yunho the race for free — that it should be an easy win for the man on Team Spirals.
Shifting gear, Seonghwa slams on the break just enough to hit his drift just right, this time not losing the back end at all — a comforting sign, glancing back at the EVO behind him and still trailing — a short straight drive before the last sharp left, and subsequently the end of the race — this being the make or break of the entire competition.
Shifting again to hit his drift — tires screeching and the smell of burning rubber carrying so heavy in the air that surely everyone waiting at the top of the mountain can feel the heaviness of the impending end, Seonghwa glances back again to look towards the tall man with the dark, red hair in his rearview mirror—
But this time, he finds no one there looking back at him.
Panic settling hard and fast into his chest, the man looks over to his side, Yunho now having crept up just next to him on the same drift — unaware of how it is that he's able to gain on a hairpin turn such as this one but without the ability to think much of it now — and sure, through numerous races between he and Hongjoong on this very same track, it's not unheard of, and has happened before.
But tonight, of all nights.
Yunho looking over at the panicking driver with a cool and collected demeanor as he slams his shift to carry a straighter drive just a second faster than Seonghwa — the man can't help but let out an exasperated 'fuck!' to no one as he follows suit but all too late in the grand scheme of things — seconds of drive feeling like a collection of years in the moment and the outcomes resulting the same, all it takes it one second — and in situations such as this one, it's the Emperors leader Jeong Yunho who effortlessly shows his skill, precision, and experience. all within one seconds time.
Coming out of the turn, the lights from the awaiting crowd in full view as Yunho rips forward and ahead of Seonghwa who only straightens out his own vehicle just after — and in less than ten seconds, the race is over as the both of them cross the finish line.
Trying to temper your frown at the result, and pulling away from Hongjoong before Yunho can catch you in his eyesight of being with the man, you notice the way he chews on the inside of his cheek contemplatively — disappointed, but not surprised.
As you make your way through the crowd and towards your boyfriend — stepping tall and proud from his vehicle with a smug grin on his face as if the entire world rest in his palm, it's a bubbling feeling of disgust, and maybe even resentment that starts to churn within you at the sight of him.
The cheers from other Emperors members and fans alike ringing through your ears, too loud, too obnoxious to stand listening to for too long, Yunho catches sight of you before you have a chance to duck out of the group of people, stepping forward and taking you by the hand to pull you towards him and into a kiss for the people to see.
When he finally releases you, you catch eyes with Hongjoong in the back of the standing people — cigarette dangling between pretty lips and eyes rolling as he turns back to console the loser of the race.
“Problem, Chief.”
The words come from Mingi — driver, racer, mechanic and closest friend of Yunho's, so you know it's not good when the both of you quickly turn your attention to the man with his attention hard pressed into the windshield of your boyfriends car.
“Man, come on, what now!” Yunho whines as he steps around and next to his friend to view whatever it is that is the issue.
Pointing a finger towards a large crack in the glass — spanning from the bottom right corner all of the way up to nearly the center, Mingi doesn't even really have to say it before the red head starts groaning with his head tossed back. “Give me a fuckin' break.”
“You didn't notice?” Mingi asks with a bit of a chuckle, as if completely unsure how that could be, but Yunho shrugs. “I heard something hit it but I just thought it was a small rock, I didn't think it would be all of this.”
“You can't drive it like this, we'll have to bring it back to the shop tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah, I know,” your boyfriend groans again, the largest inconvenience in the world now being presented just before him. “Good thing I just gained a new car, I guess.”
It sends chills down your spine, only now being reminded of exactly what it was that was on the line for this race.
With a sinister tone and a single corner of his mouth upturning, Mingi chuckles. “Better go collect, then.”
Slinging an arm up and around your shoulders a bit more roughly than you would have liked, Yunho leans down just a bit to plant a kiss on the top of your head as he pulls you forward and towards the group of Spirals only a few feet away.
“Just another pretty little thing I get to take from these bums.”
The words twisting your stomach into knots all over again, there had always been a sneaking suspicion deep within your soul that somewhere in there, at the end of the day, there was no respect for you, no love for you, nothing genuine at all.
Just another possession that Yunho wished to acquire, as he had been his entire time there.
Shouting out and towards the grouping of guys, Seonghwa leaning with his back against his car and quite evidently to you trying to play his loss cool — you've known him long enough to know how much he loves that car, and how badly it stings for him to lose it.
You hate to see it, and more than that, you hate to see it be lost to Emperors.
“You cracked my windshield, fuckboy,” Yunho shouts — the tone is playful, but it's more fuel to the fire you can tell from the way Hongjoong's jaw tightens as he clenches it in an attempt to be a good sport about the whole ordeal. “Time to pay up, I need to get me and the girl home, after all.”
“Yeah,” Seonghwa sighs, turning to lean into his car and popping the dashboard compartment to retrieve the title, it's then that the sound of Hongjoong stepping up from the side can be heard.
“What can I do to keep Seonghwa's car?”
At first a sweeping moment of silence, before a crashing sound and what you can only imagine to be Seonghwa slamming his head against his dash in shock at the proclamation by his friend as the man hisses and is found to be rubbing the back of it upon pulling himself out of the side of the vehicle — but with short silver hair and similarly short in stature — especially compared to your boyfriend, Hongjoong stands firm in front of the man, arms crossed in front of his chest as he awaits a response.
Yunho looking at him with one quirked eyebrow before glancing down towards you with a lopsided grin, he looks back up at Hongjoong through eyelashes before delivering his short-thought response.
“Kind of bad form to beg me not to take my spoils, don't you think?” he asks smugly. “Kind of pathetic, ya know?”
“You don't need it, you guys only drive EVO's anyways, who cares.”
“Hardly the point,” he says, matching Hongjoong's stance as he pulls from you and crosses his arms to stand straight — and even taller — in front of your ex. “We had an agreement, and I won fair and square, the car is mine.”
“What, so you can rip it for parts?” Hongjoong asks.
“No, so I can trash it where it belongs.”
Snorting at the pissy response, the shorter of the two glances away for a second, chewing on the inside of his cheek again before turning back to carry on the conversation, but it's Seonghwa who interjects before he's able to.
“Hongjoong, it's fine, he won.”
“Actually, it's not,” he says, this time more pointed than his previous tone. “I don't think it is fine, actually, so what can I do to keep my mans car?”
Watching the three go back and forth causing anxiety to bubble up in your gut, unsure of the lengths in which any of the men are willing to go to in order to get their points across, you give it some thought yourself — if there's anything that you can do to settle this situation between all of them yourself. the person with the most dealings with all parties involved, now standing by on the sidelines as the two teams attempt to hash it out — and not well, at that, your mind races in an attempt to come to an answer, but before you're able, you feel the discomforting gaze of your partner raining down on you from just above, all before any words even leave his mouth.
“Well babe, what do you think? Should we let the poor guy keep his ratty ol' car?”
You know a set up when you see it — or in this case, when you hear it.
Glancing towards Hongjoong, his eyes pull away almost immediately, you figure as to not attempt to pressure you into making a decision one way or another — and not knowing how much weight your decision holds, that earlier anxiety continues creeping up through your chest, and into your throat.
You know that one thing is for sure: doing the right thing most certainly will come with consequences.
“Well?”
Inhaling slowly, deeply, you make your decision.
“Let Seonghwa keep the car.”
You try not to engage in eye contact with your boyfriend, knowing full well that his gaze remain laser focused on you especially now, but the curiosity getting the best of you as you glance upwards to meet angry, disappointed eyes — the strangest result of an expression of compassion awaiting you — Yunho hums just barely audibly before forcing a grin and looking back up and towards the Spirals members.
“Lady says fuckboy keeps his car, so fuckboy keeps his car.”
One part relieved at the outcome, one part surprised by your word carrying any weight with the man, and the last concerned about the result of this in regards to your relationship with Yunho, slinging an arm up and around your shoulder again, he hurries you off and away from the men.
But regardless of what happens now, you know that you've done the right thing — and maybe for once you'll be able to sleep well tonight.
“We're gonna go to the bar, wanna come?”
Yeosang's voice ringing out as the two of you step forward, Yunho abruptly pulls his arm from you as he carries forward and towards the friends glossy white EVO — and waving a hand up in the air, he bids you farewell in a turn of events that you find not all that surprising anymore.
“Get a ride home with your pals,” he rings out, tone venomous and contemptuous. “In the ratty old RX-7, all used up and past its prime—“ he scoffs as he opens the passenger side door.
“—Kinda reminds me of someone else I know.” He says, finishing the thought before sliding inside of the car and slamming the door shut.
The words don't hurt — not from him. It's an anticipated outcome from a calculated risk that you decided to take.
But they show the mans true colors all the same.
As you watch your boyfriend and his friends drive off to enjoy the rest of their victory evening without you — shooting you knowing glances all the while — you contemplate sending the text message then and there, the one ending your relationship with him once and for all. A break up via text, perhaps precisely what he deserves for his thoughtlessness towards you, anyways, but still extending yourself much further for him than perhaps the man would ever do for you.
Save it for another day, and try to enjoy the rest of your evening.
Sauntering back over towards Spirals, Chaerin now joining the fray, she looks up at you from beneath Seonghwa's popped hood — having been checking out his engine as you dealt with the disaster on the other side of the asphalt.
But as she flashes you with a wide smile, it's all the more indication that what you had done was right.
“You're in big trouble, aren't you?” She asks, already knowing the answer.
Sighing, you shrug. “Looks like I need another ride home tonight.”
Hongjoong popping up from the drivers side of Seonghwa's car, where the tallest man is sat and about ready to head off for the night and overhearing the conversation, he sends you a knowing look from across matte black paint that may now still remain in the company of his teammate, and all thanks to you.
With Chaerin and Seonghwa being the last two to drive off, and leaving only you and your ex-boyfriend at the top of the hill, you place your bag into the passenger side seat of Hongjoong's car before shutting the door and leaning against it with your chest — arms crossed along the top as you wait for the man on the other side to finish doing the same and come up to meet your eyes.
“Surprised you did it,” he says as he does, pulling at the collar of his leather jacket to loosen it just a bit. “Guess I don't have to ask if he's pissed since you're here.”
“Yeah,” you sigh, long since accepting of the outcome of the situation and having made peace with it. “He'll get over it.”
“Why's his car still here, anyway?”
“Crack in the windshield,” you reply with a shrug. “Karma, maybe.”
“Oh, definitely,” he chimes back with a snort. “Lemmie see this thing.”
The two of you walking back over towards Yunho's car, long since abandoned and awaiting it's rescue in the early morning hours (or not so early, depending on how the night out goes), you recall this being the exact spot where you and Hongjoong shared your first kiss — first romantic kiss — past the veil of a friends with benefits arrangement, more raw and exposed and knowing between you both; a much chillier night than this and much windier when he finally pulled you in for it with no other intentions beyond it, and the words that you had secretly been wanting to hear for weeks before then.
'I think we should just see each other, only, what do you think?'
“Oh man, that's a fuckin' doozy!”
High pitched laughter ringing through the night air and straight through the memory, effectively bringing you back to the present, your attention pulls back to Hongjoong, leaned over the side hood of Yunho's EVO to laugh at your boyfriends misfortune. “No wonder he was so hard up for Seonghwa's car, fuckin' scumbag.”
Meeting him at his side to take a look at the damage again, you smile at Hongjoong's joy in it, knowing it's well deserved, and most earned.
“Looks like I got you to myself tonight, after all.”
It's sort of a sudden change, the way his body shifts to pull away from the vehicle only enough to plant you further against it, and underneath him — arms on either side of you, caging you in with little option for escape from the man.
Not that you really wanted to, anyway.
Hongjoong leans in towards your face, lips grazing the skin of your cheek on their way towards your ear — the contact sending a shiver down your spine — some bizarre taboo of being held like this by him against such a prized possession of your boyfriends — but suppose that makes two of them, now well within Hongjoong's grasp currently.
“Have the keys?”
For a second you wonder what he's referring to, before it dawns on you that he's referring to the car, and with a shake of your head to protest. “No, only Mingi has another set.”
“Damn,” he whispers against the shell of your ear as a hand dips down and makes its way between your legs to palm at you. “That's okay, we can make due.”
Devilish in tone, you melt into the touch as he begins pulling at the buttoning of your jeans, face turning upwards and pulling your mouth into his — his tongue tasting of cigarette and coffee in anticipation of a long night ahead, you happily lean into it as your arms sling up and around his neck to pull him harder against you.
Shimmying your pants down your legs, he pulls away from your mouth only long enough to slink down to free one of your feet from the restrictive clothing, hiking your leg up and around his hip as he comes back up to meet your mouth for the second round of devouring you — cool metal greeting your behind as he presses you harder against the vehicle, you moan into his mouth as a finger presses into you slowly, one hand from around his neck falling back and against the car to steady yourself better for what it is that's soon to take place.
A second finger in, slowly prying you open for his cock, Hongjoong's mouth pulls away to trail down your neck, latching onto the skin just below your chin to suck a mark into it.
Just another doing of his that you'll have to cover up, like all of the ones before it. Perhaps if you were smarter, you'd tell him to avoid doing such things.
But frankly, that's not something you want, either.
“Wanna fuck you,” he groans into your skin, a whimper escaping you in response to the admission. Fingers pulling from you to work into his own jeans, you allow your head to fall back to take in the moment — the beautiful night sky, the light breeze, and the lingering scents of the nights earlier goings on. only a few seconds granted to you before you feel the familiar prodding of the tip of him pushing inside of you through the sound of his belt buckle jingling through the air.
“Kiss me,” you whisper out, Hongjoong wasting no time obliging the request as he brings his mouth up from your neck and to your lips, one hand gripping tightly into your thigh to keep it hoisted up his hip as he fucks you against the vehicle.
The angle certainly doing you favors, presenting the perfect ability for Hongjoong's cock to graze the perfect spot with every drive into you, free hand not used to keep yourself somewhat upright now buried into short, blonde hair — the man fucks you hard, but not particularly fast, every thrust seemingly deliberate in his desire to bring you to orgasm as quickly as possible.
Legs quaking around him as you cry out his name, clenching down around him as he fucks you through your orgasm, Hongjoong pauses kissing you long enough to pull from your lips enough to watch you intently as you cum around his dick — forehead pressed to your own as you moan and whimper through your release.
“Fuck me from behind.”
The demand spilling from your lips before you have a chance to think much of it, still reeling from your orgasm, no time lost in taking heed of it — pulling himself from you and turning you around to bend you over the cold metal of your boyfriends car before burying his cock inside of you again and settling into a much harder, quicker pace than before.
You feel him reach down for something briefly, without much thought to it, until you hear the sound of a lighter flickering, and the scent of freshly lit cigarette from behind you.
It's a little charming, in a hilariously degenerate way, you think.
“Rubbed off on you a little bit, huh?” he huffs out between thrusts, one hand settled on the small of your back while the other wraps around the dip in your waist. “Now who likes getting fucked in places they have no business getting fucked in?”
“Joong— feel so good, fuck—“ and it's hardly a response to the questions, although it sort of is with how exquisite the drag of his cock feels against your walls.
“Yeah, baby? Want me to make you cum again? Like me fucking you on your mans car?”
“Yes,” you manage to huff out, the air nearly fucked out of you with every hard push of himself against you.
Feeling the brief loss of one of his hands — presumably to finish off his cigarette and toss it to the side — he brings it back to gently snake up the length of your back, settling at the back of your neck and gripping fingers into the sides to continue his rhythm.
“Rub yourself for me,” Hongjoong whispers, voice faltering every so slightly at the creeping promise of his own release, and you waste no time bringing your dominant hand down and between your legs — first feeling for the way his cock stretches your pussy open with every push inside of you, enough in and of itself to get you that much closer to where you want to get to before circling fingers against your clit to bring yourself over the edge around him — groaning immediately at the feeling of you tightening around him with the additional stimulation, he fucks you that much harder.
Biting hard into your lip in an attempt to stifle your cries, Hongjoong notices, and much to his disapproval.
“No one can hear you, you can scream for me,” he groans, clearly and quickly reaching his own orgasmic inevitability. “Lemmie hear you, tell me how good it feels.”
The instruction does enough of the work, his desire to hear you cry out for him and how good he makes you feel as you cum hard — at the same time, Hongjoong's hips stuttering with a breathy moan of your name as he shoves his cock as deep into you as he can to cum — the throb of his release prolonging your own as you sound nearly pained by the feeling of a long, drawn out, second orgasm of the night.
An airy 'fuck' dropping from him as he attempts to steady himself, catch his breath after his release, Hongjoong only bends forward to lean himself against your back — gentle kisses peppered across your shoulder and back before he settles the side of his head down against you for a moment of reprieve.
As a gust of fresh, night air flushes by and across hot skin, when the words ring out through bitten, red, lips, you think for a split second that you're not sure which one of you they truly come from — long since having been hanging in the forefront of your mind, as it was.
'I miss you. Us.'
Over the next following weeks, you can't help but notice the acute way in which messages back from Hongjoong dissipate. You figure, at least to some degree, that the relationship between Spirals and Emperors having reached such a boiling point after the last race, that perhaps it's expected — that even in spite of your good deed in martyring yourself for Seonghwa's car, the fact that it ever even reached that point be reason enough to want to distance himself from you.
That's what you tell yourself, at least, ignoring the elephant in the room.
And as the days pass, you find your relationship with Yunho having also deteriorated in such a way that maybe you hadn't anticipated. Yes, you expected him to be mad about the dealing with Seonghwa, and yes, that had been something that you had factored in prior to making the decision — in thinking that with a few days to cool off, things might just go back to normal.
Not that normal was ever even that great, either.
So two weeks later, on a rainy Thursday night just two hours before the scheduled meet up — no races and no thrills given the weather — when Yunho texts you that he's coming over to talk, you're unsure of what to expect. Perhaps the dissolution of your relationship, the thought causing an expected twisting to the contents of your stomach.
Why, you're not sure. Would breaking up even really be that bad?
But suppose the ending of a relationship where there once had been love will always be hard.
Watching Yunho drag himself through the doorway of your bedroom, jacket almost certainly left at the front door of your home and bag slumping down to the floor with a thud, you watch as he avoids eye contact with you for the first few seconds of his arrival — fingers pushing through damp, rained upon hair to remove what's stuck to the skin of his forehead, he sighs heavily as he finally makes eye contact with you — but doesn't press himself further inside of the bedroom, either.
Awkwardness so tangible, it's the first time that you think you've ever seen him in such a bizarre state — not so astoundingly full of ego and grandeur but rather, somewhat impish as a result of whatever it is that he came here tonight to say.
“We should talk.”
Voice deep but almost cracking through the abruptness of the words, it takes you quite a bit back as once again his eyes dart from you — knots tightening in your abdomen at the sight of your boyfriend just before you.
You can't find it in you to respond to him, waiting for the pin to drop, instead.
“You can't spend time with Spirals anymore.”
Wait, what?
You don't say it, not verbally at least, and you suppose you twist of your features in near disgust says everything that it needs to as Yunho rolls his eyes at the quiet display of you before him.
“Don't really want you hanging out with that bitch Chaerin, either, but i'm willing to compromise.”
“'Willing'?” you mirror back, shock laden in your tone. “You're telling me who I can and can't hang out with, now? I've known them all way longer than i've known you.”
“Yeah and I don't think that's doing you any favors,” he bites back, finally stepping towards you in a much stronger stride than the way he had entered. “The thing with Seonghwa was humiliating, you're my girlfriend, why the fuck are you going to bat for him? He lost.”
Scoffing, you reel at the fact that the argument is taking place at all with how asinine it is to you.
“This is stupid, you can't tell me who I can spend time with.”
“I can and I will.”
Standing up from the edge of your bed and pushing past him, you swiftly grab your phone and keys from your nightstand on the way out before turning back to him for the final blow.
You pause, having to think twice before delivering it.
“You feel big, Yunho?” You start, contempt heavy in your voice towards him with eyes equally narrow and cutting. “You feel brave only racing people who aren't on your level? Is that why—“
Pausing again, you watch the mans eyes widen at the beginning of the implication, stepping towards you again. “Say it! Say what you were going to say!”
“—that why you never challenged Hongjoong?”
You turn again to leave, but not before long fingers wrap around your arm to stop you. Not especially aggressive or violent but enough to have your heart beating through your chest at the implications — a man putting his hands on you during a heated argument — You still anyways, just in case.
You don't think Yunho would hit you, but frankly, you're not entirely sure, either.
The two of you locking eyes, rage and disdain painting each one of your faces as you stare each other down, Yunho lets go of you almost just as quickly as he had grasped a hold.
And probably regretting it just as much, too.
“See yourself out,” you say just before turning to leave again, and when Yunho asks you where you're going, the only details you grace him with are “out.”
“He put his fucking hands on you?”
The voice rings out from Chaerin — shrill and shrieky through the echoing walls of the mechanic shop, previously rolled up beneath her forest green RX-8 — but quickly wheeling herself out from under it at the sound of the words leaving your mouth.
Hongjoong only a few more feet away; leaned back in a tattered rolling chair that's certainly seen better days and boots kicked up onto a desk that's now used for very little besides holding water bottles and the occasional wrench — as he attempts to dig out oil from underneath a fingernail with a switchblade he adds commentary of his own. “The guy's a piece of shit, got half a mind to slash his fucking tires right in front of his face tonight.”
“Don't bother,” you sigh. “He didn't hurt me, he wasn't violent, but yeah—“
“A man putting his hands on you in any way during an argument is violent,” Chaerin states clearly as she walks towards you to pull you into a hug. “I'm sorry, my love.”
“I'm okay, seriously.”
“You've got to leave him,” the blonde woman adds after your affirmation of being alright with the circumstances. “I mean, this can't keep going on. It was already bad but things are just getting worse, and worse at this point. The cheating, the controlling behavior, now getting physical with you...”
You can't help but glance to your far right towards Hongjoong in an attempt to assess the way that he's intaking the information, but the man appears to be outwardly unbothered — still picking apart the underside of his fingernail with little more to say on the situation.
“We can find you a nice guy,” your best friend says with a smile and a certain cheekiness to her.
“Like Hongjoong.”
First it's a crashing sound, followed by a pointed 'fuck' and turning to follow where the sounds had come from, the sight before you being your ex planted back to the floor, wheels of his chair having given out from beneath him — and a nasty gash in the tip of his finger from the knife once toyed with.
“Are you okay?” you ask, relatively unbothered by the sight before you as Chaerin jogs off to retrieve the first aid kid.
“What's wrong with your friend?”
“How much time do you have?” you chuckle, implication of 'a lot' heavy in the answer. A playful huff from the man following as the blonde woman arrives back with a large enough bandage for the wound and something to disinfect it.
“Someone's jittery.” She says with a knowing grin, which Hongjoong pointedly avoids looking at.
“I drink a lot of coffee.”
“Why did you guys break up, anyway?”
As silence befalls the mechanic shop, you slowly glance towards the woman next to you, flashing a look that says a thousand words in and of itself, but most importantly being: what are you doing right now?
Chaerin mouths “what?” back to you, as if Hongjoong isn't lying just in front of the both of you and fully capable of seeing the display before him, he finally rolls his eyes with a huff — more than exhausted of the situation already.
“Her parents hated me, okay?” he begins, wincing as the tight bandage wraps around his open wound. “Guess I look a little too much like a guy who does illegal street racing for fun and has a DUI.”
Silence again, and you think for a moment that perhaps Hongjoong's admission a bit too raw and unfiltered for what Chaerin had anticipated — a teasing that had begun rather lighthearted, now seemingly serving as a tool for the mans emotional release. It's not much, but for someone who doesn't talk about his feelings all that much, you know how much it really is, and from the way the words sound on the edge of broken by the end of the sentence, most definitely coming from a place of genuine hurt.
“Well,” she begins, and you figure that she's doing it out of a feeling of obligation — the need to respond to something so open and honest, to not leave him hanging. “Parents can be wrong—“
Her eyes now switching to flash to you as she says it.
“—but anyways, it's a good thing there's no races tonight because that's probably gonna hurt like a bitch for a couple of days. I'd recommend staying off of it and not—“
“We never stopped sleeping together.”
It's Hongjoong that you look at first — the man sucking his bottom lip in between his teeth and eyes widening at the words as he slowly turns to look at you with a face that asks 'right, what's all this, then?' and after, it's Chaerin that you glance towards — hers not all that different from Hongjoong's, although you think that if you look hard enough, you can see a sense of having already suspected as much through her features.
If she had thought as much, she keeps it to herself, opting instead to clear her throat and yank Hongjoong back up to his feet with her as the three of you stand up from the concrete floor.
“Never stopped as in...?” She inquires, curious of the exact timeline in relation to Yunho.
“Think we stopped seeing each other for like—“ you pause to think as you glance towards your ex next to you, still relatively shell-shocked by the whole ordeal. You shrug and sigh simultaneously. “A week, after we broke up?”
“So, you've always...since Yunho...”
Lips pulled into a thin line as you're forced to admit such, you nod gently — far from proud of your misdoings, but acknowledging them all the same.
“Wow,” your friend chimes out, eyes wide still with the gathering of new information. Hands pressed to her hips as another layer of quiet wafts over the three of you — Hongjoong not dare speaking out of turn in events such as this — neither of you have to, not with Chaerin around.
“Thank god! It's what he fucking deserves. Fuck that guy.”
Laughing nervously, you understand where she's coming from, of course: as your best friend, and a friend of Hongjoong's much more so now than earlier, to know that Yunho has been repeatedly done wrong in such a way feels a bit like a breath of fresh air — an understanding that through everything that he's put everyone else through, there is still some semblance of justice — somewhere, somehow.
You don't necessarily agree with the feeling, guilt and disgusting swirling around deep in your chest every time you're forced to acknowledge the fact, but perhaps it's admitting to it out loud that will give you the strength to do something with it.
And everything else aside, you've wondered how much of Hongjoong's truth laid bare for you that night on top of the mountain with his confession to you.
The least that you can ask of Yunho — and everyone else involved, for that matter, is for one night where nothing goes wrong.
You're thankful that even in never verbally requesting of it, it seems as though the stars aligned themselves all the same — everyone on their best behavior, and a casual car meet night starting and ending without an argument, or otherwise nasty words exchanged.
The looks are unavoidable — Spirals, Chaerin and the like in Yunho's direction — something he most definitely picks up on yet chooses not to comment. Surprising, for him. A man that always has something to say, including and almost especially in circumstances where it's him that's in the wrong.
But tonight? Nothing.
You heed your boyfriends request: not really with intention of actually doing so, that is, allowing him to control who it is that you can and cannot have contact with, but rather to keep the evening smooth and mellow.
It was a conversation that would see reopening.
“Hey,” you whisper, hand reaching over the center console of his vehicle to wrap delicate fingers around his forearm. “We should talk.”
Putting the car into drive and waving off his friends just before pulling off, you study his face as he remains silent from just next to you — jaw tight and lips pressed thin as he stares ahead — it's as if he's driving, sitting entirely still in the emptying parking garage used as tonight’s meeting place.
Sighing, Yunho closes his eyes for a moment as if to collect himself. You brace for impact.
“I'm sorry.”
And you figure that surprising would be an understatement, eyebrows pushing together as you take in the words just as they left his mouth. Foot pressing to the pedal now as the car slowly drives the both of you off, the man sighs again. “I shouldn't put my hands on you. Not ever. I'm sorry.”
You sort of knew that it was well beyond the scope of what even he finds to be acceptable-assholery, not that it excuses the behavior, but an apology for the goings on feels the least surprising of all of the other potential things the man could have been issuing it for.
Controlling behavior is okay, but he draws the line at getting physical. Guess it's something.
Not enough, though.
“Yeah,” you quietly reply back, not wanting to absolve him of it, nor do you really wish to accept his apology for it. Forgiveness for some things feeling well beyond your scope — suppose it would file under unforgivable. Something that Yunho would have to make peace with on his own time.
“That why you were on your best behavior tonight?” You ask, tone playful but sort of meaning it, also.
Your boyfriend chuckles at the words as the car slows to a halt for a red light just ahead.
“Yeah, kind of,” he says quickly, not needing time to mull it over at all. “I feel bad, it's fucked up—“
Pausing, Yunho leans forward to look out and through his windshield towards something a bit up ahead before sitting back again and glancing to his side at you. “—Mind if I kidnap you for a bit?” he asks with a gentle smile.
Suppose Jeong Yunho serves as your own blind spot.
Car parked in a nearby, open, parking lot — only a handful of street lights illuminating the area, but enough so that it doesn't feel secluded — the man next to you sits back against his custom seat more comfortably, head resting back as well just before turning to face you and stretching his arm out now against the center of the vehicle towards you in and effort to request for your hand in his.
You oblige.
Inhaling heavily — you await the words that seem to linger just on his tongue, the vision of a man still thinking through every thought before allowing them to exit through his mouth — you wonder, if perhaps it's the first time of him having done so. Yunho, so quick with words and thoughtless actions and selfishness, now contemplating everything in a whole new way, a way that you think, perhaps, you've never seen from him before.
“You know I just want what's best for you, right?”
Yuck.
Words carrying into your ears and twisting deep inside your stomach as if doused with poison themselves, it's not at all what you had been hoping to hear: it's an explanation for him being the way he is — it's an implication that you should need him to help you make decisions, to act right, to be good for him, because certainly you're incapable of doing it yourself.
For whatever reason, the memories of when the two of you first started dating come flooding back to you. Holding hands while shopping and movie nights late at your place with your parents home (previously uncharted waters, but your mother liked him so much she allowed it for him), a hand on your thigh when he took you out for a ride in his car, but nothing too dangerous — the assumption that he wouldn't be able to live with himself should anything happen to you while with him.
When perhaps he was the danger itself all along.
But it makes it hard nonetheless. It's never easy when there is love there, memories there — a history. You cared for Yunho, in all of the ways that a girlfriend does, no matter how wronged or slighted or for how long — it's difficult sometimes, to do what's best for oneself when knowing it to be the severance of so many others.
“We should break up.”
But you have to, anyways. Above all else.
You choose to stare forward out of the windshield in front of you — a vivid recollection of the way Hongjoong had you not so long ago just there springing up and into the forefront of your mind as if some cruel reminder that you not be the saint you wish to paint yourself as — that you're not a victim in all of this, not completely.
With dark red hair in your peripheral vision, you see the man dip his head down.
Then delicately pull his hand from your own.
But Yunho opts out of a verbal response, instead using his newly freed hand to start the ignition of his car once again and toss it into reverse. Panic sets in, although, you're not entirely sure why.
“Yunho—“
“I heard you.”
A response curt and lacking any emotion beyond anger, you find it in yourself to finally look towards him fully — jaw clenched hard as you're so used to seeing on him, and eyes narrow with indignation.
Stilling the car again and jamming the shift into drive much rougher than he had been before, he begins pulling off and back onto the road — it's towards your home, that much you are thankful — but you don't imagine the ride there will remain this quiet, either.
“Why?” he asks suddenly, now driving a tad bit faster than before. It's nothing especially dangerous, but you note it all the same. Yunho doesn't give you time to answer, though, before adding onto the inquiry with another thought of his own. “Because I grabbed your arm?”
He sounds stressed, voice pitchier than usual given his typically smoother, deep tone — perhaps panicked at being faced with the dissolution of the relationship.
And just as you're about to answer him, he continues on again.
“Because of him?”
You know who he means without the dropping of the name.
“You can't tell me who I can and can't hang out with, Yunho—“
“You're choosing him over me? Over us? You already broke up with that fucking loser once, how many times do you have to do it before it sticks?”
“It's not about Hongjoong.”
Sort of a lie.
“Then it shouldn't matter that I don't want you hanging out with your stupid ass ex. You miss a guy with a fuckin' DUI? Are you stupid?”
Yunho's tone raising louder and louder, anger bubbling quickly in the confined space of the vehicle, you want nothing more than to be free from the clutches of being there with him.
Sure, you had anticipated the break up to not go over well, but perhaps it was heading into territory you weren't quite ready for.
It's then that the fuel light pops on on Yunho's dashboard — slamming his palm against the steering wheel in frustration at all of these circumstances culminating annoyingly at once, he cusses to himself under his breath before looking just up ahead and on the right for a gas station open.
But what really causes your heart to do a nose dive into your stomach, is the visual of Hongjoong's car pulled up to gas pump three.
“Well, would you look at that,” Yunho sing-songs sarcastically as he pulls in, a man with silver hair just exiting the shop with a bottle of water and keys in hand before briefly looking up just enough to notice the scene before him. “Perfect timing.”
And now you know that tonight is going to be a problem.
Pulling up to gas pump two, Hongjoong slows just to the side of his car before hopping into the drivers seat — as if having some sort of sixth sense of there being a problem — carefully eyeing the EVO as it stills to a halt on the other side of the median separating you.
When Yunho slams the shift into park, the only word exiting his mouth is “out.”
For once, you're thrilled to be taking his direction.
Hopping out of the car with quickness, you shoot Hongjoong a look that says 'there's a problem' that you know has him watching the situation even more intently as he eyes the taller of the two getting out of his vehicle. A loud slamming of his car door — much louder and rougher than he would ever handle his car under normal circumstances — you watch as your ex grits his teeth as Yunho steps towards the two of you and meets Hongjoong face to face with a grin.
Nodding his head towards you, Yunho speaks first. “Ya know this one just broke up with me.”
Hongjoong snorts through his nose at the words, never faltering in his eye contact with the man in front of him. “'Bout time.”
Brave, you think. If Yunho put hands on you then you know he's not above putting Hongjoong on his ass, either.
A slow blink concealing the roll of his eyes as he nods at the words, Yunho keeps his crooked grin plastered across his face. “Big talk for a guy going nowhere, with nothing — you think you're big 'cause you got the girl? Over my dead body.”
You don't know entirely what he means by that. Intention to pursue you in spite of it all? An unwillingness to let the relationship go? A cold chill firing through your blood at the implications of what it means, you warm slightly at the sound of the silver haired man just next to you laughing at the words as he digs into his pockets for his pack of cigarettes — unable to light it due to their current whereabouts.
Hongjoong's eyebrow quirking up at the words as he takes them in — it's a look that almost explicitly explains all of the ways in which he does not take the tallest of the two seriously, in any way. You find it almost comforting, that perhaps he knows something you don't, and thus, you have little to worry about — but with a man known for acting on impulse and making rather poor decisions, who can really tell.
“What're you gonna do?” he questions, cigarette lazily dangling between his lips. “Make her be in a relationship with you, stupid?”
Jaw tense, Yunho steps towards Hongjoong slowly — the movement spiking your anxiety, but cool as a cucumber, the man remains in place with his behind gently pressed against his car and arms folded across his chest.
“If I want something, then it's mine,” he whispers — tone oozing of smugness and superiority.
For the first time ever, you think that Yunho is letting the charade go in full — no more plausible deniability about him being ultimately good or right underneath it all. The real him. This is who he is.
Waving his hand in the warm, late night air, as if evidencing their surroundings to prove his point despite no one else being around. “Maybe you've noticed, with my little collection of your friends' useless tin cans.”
Knowing Spirals and Yunho's propensity to take from them, you know it's a sore spot for Hongjoong, so watching the way in which the leader only drops his chin down to his chest with a grin before cocking his head to the side and glancing back up at the tallest of the three of you — you're unsure of what to expect.
But Hongjoong being so cool about it is probably a bad sign, based on what you know.
“Funny,” he says finally, inhaling sharply before pulling his arms apart again to rifle through his keys for the one leading to his car.
“'Cause if that were true I wouldn't have been laying into her the whole time y'all were together.”
The result comes on quicker than you expect — a fast and strong right hook to Hongjoong's jaw sending him almost barreling across the side of his own vehicle at the contact — Yunho breathing heavily as he rubs at his sore and potentially broken set of knuckles. the man glancing at you and for a second, you worry if you may also meet the same consequence as your mouthy ex, but without a word, and red hair swaying in the wind, Yunho only turns to head back towards his car.
No longer in his sights, you rush over to Hongjoong, delicately touching the place of impact and checking for mobility as he opens and closes his mouth with a wince. “God, he hits like a pussy, too. Unbelievable.”
“Hongjoong.” You whine, because god forbid the man delivering the assault overhear the comment.
“Hey!” Hongjoong shouts, and if you had known him to wish to say more, you'd have done everything in your power to stop him, but with the words already out there, your eyes widen at him, a nonverbal plead to shut the fuck up.
“Race me next Saturday,” he yells, still awkward with his damaged jaw but confident and pointed all of the same. “Not someone in my crew, me. If I win, you leave her the fuck alone and you leave town. That's it.”
You can't see the man, only the sound of him having opened the car door to go off of in relation to his whereabouts, but you hear nothing from behind you for what feels like eons. Then...
“And if I win?”
Pausing to spit out blood and hopefully not a tooth accompanying it to the ground just between his black boots, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the words come out far too confidently than you'd like them to, especially because you know him to have every intention of keeping his word.
“Then I leave. You get the car, the girl, the team, everything.”
A heavy gust of wind barreling through as silence overtakes the situation, silently pleading with Hongjoong through looks to not agree to this, to not go through with it — looks that you know the man to be purposefully avoiding in his reluctance to make eye contact with you as he asserts the deal — you don't feel any better knowing that the man is willing to put everyone on the line for you, or for whatever this is.
It's reckless, and it's dangerous, and there's got to be another way.
“See you next Saturday.” Yunho says with a tone so matter of a fact, before thrusting himself into his car and taking off just as fast.
When Saturday rolls around, it leaves you wondering where the time went between then and now.
Riding passenger side in Hongjoong's RX-7, you mull over the the happenings of the week leading up to now: countless hours leading into days spent at the mechanics shop with him, Chaerin and the rest of the Spirals team — testing and preparing his car for the impending race with everything and then some riding on it, the anticipation bubbles in your gut in a way that you're unfamiliar with — a race with far too much behind it, more than necessary, and it leaves you wondering why it is that the man driving next to you is willing to give everything up for what effectively boils down to one thing: you.
But with almost no down time between the declaration and the race — Hongjoong spending many nights at the shop, curled up asleep on the cold, beat up, leather couch inside instead of opting to bother with the travel time home when he knows he'll only end up back there early in the morning anyways — it leaves no time for the conversation.
A silent acknowledgment between you, him, and everyone else on your side of the equation.
Trailing behind Chaerin's RX-8 and pulling into the all too familiar roadside lot of the uphill racing track that serves to be Hongjoong's favorite, you figure that the two of them must have hashed it out unbeknownst to you — or it was some sort of understanding between racers for this to be the place that it would happen. The track. Not the most difficult, nor the one offering top speeds (and for that, it could be raced downhill, anyways), but rather the one feeling just right for the sort of situation.
Yunho too proud to decline the invitation to beat Hongjoong on his home terf, his favorite track, the one known to be his best — and Hongjoong all too confident to feel that he could ever be beaten on it.
Setting the car into park, you dare not speak as Hongjoong takes in a deep breath through the silence — a rowdy crowd of racers and onlookers alike heard easily from all around you outside of the car — it feels almost claustrophobic, suffocating in some way, being surrounded by people and the impending happenings of the evening.
Hongjoong looks calm and collected, however.
One hand loosening from the steering wheel to card through short, silver hair before unceremoniously plopping it onto his thigh with a flat palm, he lies his head back against the rest of his seat, turning to look at you finally with a shockingly soft expression.
“Should probably have a talk, huh?”
You can't help the way the corners of your lips curl upwards at the implications of the words. Delicate and caring. You nod.
“You're really just gonna move if you lose a race?” You ask, tone pointed with resistance in the thought of it, but the man next of you pulls his eyes away, head turning back to look out and in front of him at the passersby.
“To be honest,” he starts, thinking through the words a bit more before carrying on. “If guys like that are going to set up shop around here then maybe my time here has run out anyways, maybe it's time to move on.”
“You sound far more willing than I ever expected. You love this town.”
Hearing the exhale through his nose as if amused by the prospect of it, Hongjoong reaches forward and across you into his dashboard, rifling through papers and an empty water bottle in search of something, finally pulling an envelope with no wording sprawled across it — only an emblem.
Placing it on your lap, he nods for you to open it, but not before point out and into the crowd.
“See that guy over there with the hat? Red jacket.”
Squinting, you attempt to follow his finger with your eyes, gazing out and through the crowding of people for whoever it is that the man next to you is wishing for you to locate, all the while digging out whatever it is from this envelope that you're meant to see.
Hongjoong carries on with the thought before you do. “Those red jackets are special, custom order jackets. No one has those. You can't get them.”
“Okay...” you hesitantly acknowledge, finally landing on the man in question. Arms crossed and seemingly alone, he's looking onward — at the track, at the surroundings, and finally, over to the both of you. Nodding in your direction, Hongjoong nods back at him.
“Ever heard of Project D?” He asks.
“Uh, rings a bell. Think I've heard Yunho or Chaerin talk about it, why?”
Hongjoong snorts at the drop of names before speaking again, as if unsurprised by the ones mentioned as having any sort of interest. “Read the letter.”
A questioning look splashing across your features, you do as advised, pulling from his attention and down towards the piece of paper in your hands. It takes you some time to go through it, and then, another moment from reading it over again — because you're quite sure that you must have read something wrong, must have gone through this with a bit of wishful thinking and a simple wanting so badly of things to go good, and right.
But with the second read through and confidence in your reading comprehension, your attention snaps back up and towards Hongjoong — a wide grin sported on his face.
“This...this is—“ you manage to stutter out, heart threatening to beat through your chest entirely as he turns to meet your eyes again.
“Indeed. Turns out someone thinks this guy can drive a car,” he sighs with a sort of nonchalance that has you so taken aback you aren't even sure what to say or think.
Project D. The upper echelon of street racing. Entirely closed off, and run on a strict 'don't call us, we'll call you' type of basis. It's professional, and the dream for just about anyone involved in the sport. a one way ticket out of here, that much is for certain.
So unfamiliar to the common driver that no one here even recognizes the shining red jacket only adorned by drivers on the team.
“His name is Takahashi Ryosuke,” Hongjoong begins again, lazily having a hand out towards the man referenced only a moment ago. “He's the leader of Project D, he came to see me drive. I'm already in, but it's sort of a formality, plus, he's gotta give me my jacket.”
You pause, thinking it through in your mind again and trying to take it all in.
“In front of Yunho?”
Hongjoong laughs, a full laugh at the question. “In front of Yunho.”
Head lying back once again on the headrest of his seat and rolling gently to grant him vision of you — you watch the way his eyes fan over your features, as if taking all of them in for the first time all over again — as if it were to be the first or last time that he would ever see them, and with the calling to action of the racers needing to line up, it pulls your attention up and away with the abruptness of it, but not his — still watching you intently as if trying to read every thought floating through your mind in that very moment.
You figure it's no surprise that you ended up here, with him, like this tonight — all of his plans, everything he does perfectly in line with something that he has in mind — some sort of grand scheme of sorts, and you can't help but wonder for how long it's revolved around you.
'Racers line up, 5 until green!'
Turning back to look at Hongjoong, small hand with painted black fingernails reaching out and towards your own, he grips tightly atop one of them and squeezes lightly just before pulling it from you and shifting his car into drive again.
“So,” he starts, waving towards Ryosuke again before carefully maneuvering his vehicle towards the starting line of the track for a race that means nothing and everything to the both of you simultaneously.
“Want to take a ride with me?”
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ hope you enjoyed! please check out my navigation for more (´｡• ᵕ •｡`)
—this is a oneshot, there will be no part 2.
#hongjoong smut#yunho smut#ateez smut#hongjoong x reader#hongjoong x you#hongjoong x y/n#yunho x reader#yunho x you#yunho x y/n#ateez x reader#ateez x you#ateez x y/n
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Could you please write a song adapting Ted and Charlotte’s conversation/flirting/argument in The Guy Who Didn’t Like Musicals before he leaves her alone with Sam?
Like… there’s the genuine love between them; their respective issues, fears and unhealthy beliefs getting in the way of it; their regret that they can’t just be happy together while also not taking action to make that happen; the stress of being stuck in an alien zombie apocalypse; Charlotte’s grief over and Ted’s resentment of Sam; and their difficulty actually communicating all the previous things. And of course, the sexual tension. I just think that all of those layers interplaying would make a really good song. Especially since their dynamic wasn’t explored much in the show.
There could even be a coda where Ted, after leaving, muses that he could have done better, but he’s been very careful to never give her reason to expect better from him, so she’ll get over it. They’ll be back to their version of normal soon enough (messy as it is). So he doesn’t need to go back in there and apologize or say some heartfelt shit or anything. Then the final notes are the first ones of “You Tied up My Heart”.
I say this every time but holy SHIT this was fun
So I tried to get as much of this prompt into one song as I could - it doesn't cover the entire scene, so there would be a little bit of dialogue between this and "You Tied Up My Heart," but I think it captures a lot of their relationship and connection. There could also totally be some underscoring from this going into the next song in a full production. (Also this wouldn't be in a full production cause they wouldn't be singing, but I dream.) I also cheated a bit with the orchestrations - I've been trying to make them as playable by the original bands of the shows as possible, but for this I switched out the bass part for a second guitar cause why not. There's a little bit of "Time Bastard" in the opening synth part, and there's a pretty big motif/reprise/stolen chord progression in the bridge of the song - I was trying to think of other Hatchetfield songs relating to Spankoffski stories and sexual temptation and all that, and I think this one did the trick lol. I'm super proud of the demo for this one - it came out somewhere between "Dead Girl Walking" from Heathers and "D.O.A." from The Lightning Thief, and I'm really in love with it. Hope y'all enjoy!
In the Worst Way
CHARLOTTE: Ted! I can’t believe you’re thinking about that at a time like this, the whole world could be coming to an end!
TED: Yeah. Exactly. The whole world’s gone to shit and you’re worried about what someone else might think about you?
CHARLOTTE: Well, when you put it like that…
TED:
You think you’re such a good, good girl
You pick your nails, you hide your stress
But it’s the end of the fucking world
So you can afford to decompress
You put your image on a throne
You crumple underneath the crown
But you need to grow a backbone
Before it breaks you down
You’ve been in bed with a scumbag
But baby, can’t you see
You have a chance to upgrade
To a sleazeball like me
So if I’m dying tonight
I’ve got a great way to cap off my life
I’ll be going out doing the thing I love
Screwing around with another man’s wife
Maybe there’s better things
I should worry about today
But I’d rather be here with you
So let me say
I want you in the worst way
CHARLOTTE: Oh, you’re such a horny bastard.
TED: Always have been, always will be.
CHARLOTTE:
My body’s telling me to run
My mind is saying you’re no good
But I need something just for fun
So I guess I probably should
I’ve wished upon so many stars
To be more confident and crude
So I’ll embrace the love that’s ours
With a badass attitude
TED: Okay!
CHARLOTTE:
There’s something in my gut that says
You might still be alright
Cause I need someone to love me
Before we bite the dust tonight
So if I’m dying today
I’m gonna let you lead me astray
I might be meeting my maker pretty soon
So I’ll get down on my knees and pray
Maybe there’s better things
I should worry about today
But I’d rather be here with you
So let me say
I want you in the worst way
TED:
Ooh, I want you in the worst way, yeah
TED AND CHARLOTTE:
My happiness is coming first, I won’t be on my own
Let all those without sin cast the first stones
I’ll do all I can so you’ll never be alone
At least until we kick the bucket
CHARLOTTE:
But should I just stick with the devil I know
TED AND CHARLOTTE:
Well, you know what, fuck it!
They make out passionately as a rocking electric guitar solo backs them up.
TED AND CHARLOTTE:
So if I’m dying right now
I’ll spend this moment breaking a vow
There’s nowhere else I need to be
And I needed a little break anyhow
Maybe there’s better things
I should worry about today
But I’d rather be here with you
So let me say
Yeah, let me say
I want you in the worst way
TED:
Let’s let the chips fall where they may
TED AND CHARLOTTE:
I want you in the worst way
CHARLOTTE:
My husband’s brains fell out today
TED AND CHARLOTTE:
I want you in the worst way
Maybe there’s better things
I should worry about today
But I’d rather be here with you
So let me say
I want you in the worst way
They kiss again on the button of the song.
#team starkid#starkid#tgwdlm#the guy who didn't like musicals#hatchetfield#hatchetverse#ted spankoffski#Charlotte sweetly#most of the time when I write these I'm like “it would be cool if people from starkid saw this eventually but I don't need them to”#but HOLY SHIT I want Joey and Jaime to sing this
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THREE DAYS
Pairing: Dave York x Cartel boss Fem!Reader
Summary: The greatest thing Dave York will ever learn is to be loved… and to love in return.
Rating: E
Word count: 6,304
Warnings: 18+ NO MINORS, language and explicit content, no age gap, no use of y/n, use of a nickname, no physical description. Kidnapping and captivity (don’t worry, David's a big boy and it all ends up consensually), mentions of corruption, drugs, violence, prostitution, child trafficking, illicit activities in general, infidelity, invasion to privacy, masturbation (male/female), unprotected p in v (don't do it at home, kids), rough sex turns vanilla cause two baddies are in love, face riding, doggy style, fingering, squirting, overstimulation, cream pie, emotional orgasm. I think that covers it all.
A/N: This is some psycho killer rom com fever, I have no idea where it all came from but I'm a Pisces so there's that.
My first fic in a long, loooong time and my first Pedro's boys related tale. Encouraged to go back to the writing path by the lovely @lavendertales. English is not my native language, so please, forgive any trespassing. Written for the @pedrostories 's celebration (Did I make it before the deadline??)
Hope you like it and do let me know what you all think!
Yes, there's also a PLAYLIST
The kidnapping was the easiest part. Dave York´s daily routine must have been as predictable as his sex life with the wifey. It was disappointing, really. Your team had only surveillanced him for a couple of days and got his schedules and routes all figured out. For a DIA agent, not to mention a DIA agent-turned-mercenary, he had been sloppy. Lazy. The enemies gained through so many years of being a traitor and a greedy scumbag were all out there. Did he really think he was safe living his suburban life? Wasn't he scared his side job would have consequences at any point?
Did Dave York really consider the possibility of you forgetting him?
Of course, you sent Chet. He was your chosen brother, your lieutenant, your most loyal dog. Even though he could have done it alone, he took three of the new boys with him. He had personally trained them and thought this task as their perfect baptism of fire. The jet would be waiting. Your newest runway for the Washington deliveries, paid by unaware constituents, would be ready for the illegal flight in which only Dave would be sent to California. To the mansion/dungeon they had just finished building according to your specifications, somewhere in the desert.
-“Not again…” said Dave, rather calmly and through the hood once he could sit up and hear Chet´s voice. He could recognize that ridiculous high pitched male tone anywhere. “¿What the fuck does she want now?”
–” I don´t know, York. And it's not my place to give a fuck. But I hope it hurts”. Chet turned to the driver and whispered instructions on how to get to the private tarmac, fast but inconspicuously.
Dave chuckled and kept his cool, but on the inside, he began to worry. They had seized and crushed his iPhone as soon as they got him in the truck. Carol would soon start freaking out if he didn't answer her messages. Why the hell didn't he bring the satellite tracker today? He tried to guess where they were going, paying attention to the stops, the turns, the sounds. He could definitely recognize when they were passing Constitution Ave. But that was it. He had the feeling the directions Chet was giving the driver were solely to confuse him. After a while, the rhythm of the vehicle became monotone. They were cruising a highway. But, which one? Nevermind. It was obvious that the destination was in the outskirts of DC.
- “Out, York!”
Trying to deliver his most menacing voice, Chet yanked Dave by the arm and handed him to someone else. The highway trip was about 20 minutes and even though he was still with his head covered, it didn't take too much effort for him to realize they had arrived in some sort of an airport. She is definitely thriving.
- “I guess we´re not going to Cozum…?”
Dave didn't have the chance to finish the joke. The needle did its job perfectly. You couldn't risk your favorite bad boy using his legendary photographic memory, not even from the air.
A white room.
A bed.
A chair.
One small window.
Sunlight.
What time was it? What day was it?
Shit. Dave opened his eyes and before moving a muscle, he quickly scanned his surroundings. He had to make sure he was the only one in that cell. Because that's where he was. You had put him behind fucking bars. He´d be lying if he hadn't considered the possibility of going to prison someday. But that you were going to be his judge, jury and executor?
In the upper left corner of the locked room, there was a discreet, up-to-date camera that definitely recorded sound. Two speakers, matching the color of the walls, were hanging at each side of the bed. It was a California King Size. All of the sudden, Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You, Baby” started blasting through them. Dave sat up and some obscene flashes from the recent past slapped his memory. And, unexpectedly, fueled his groin.
-”There´s not coming back from this. Did you know that, right?” – Dave spoke over the loud music, not sure if you were able to hear him. “You kidnapped a federal agent. You´re fucked!”
Donna stopped abruptly but you continued the singing. You always had a lovely voice. In another life, you could have been a terrific singer. “IIIIIIII… love to love you babyyyy…!”
“Did you change your number?” – you asked, with a fake curiosity. “I cannot seem to reach you anymore…” You sighed, almost moaned.
“I only updated my spam call list” – Dave answered, nonchalantly. “What do you want, Killer Q?”
“ I can’t stop thinking about you”
“ Awww... You’re breaking my fucking heart, baby…” – Dave laughed.
That laughter hurt. Look at what this motherfucker does to you. One year ago, you were the most ruthless woman that had ever set foot in the drug trafficking industrial complex. As a boss. And in the US, of all places. Your facade of a succesful businesswoman, though a cliché, was more than efficient. The reality was that you had become the cocaine Godmother, the meth Empress, the Goddess of opioid. Your name had started to be known across the substances’ world, with a reputation forged under seas of blood. Every single poor devil, with so little brain to disrespect you and everything you had to go through to get where you were, was either impaired or underneath some surface.
And you were a witty bitch. While supervising the traditional kneecapping session reserved for dealers with dreams of entrepreneurism, you love to deliver some really funny lines. And yet, Dave York mocking you, left you speechless.
“Well, if the mountain will not come to Muhammad, then I guess Muhammad must kidnap the mountain…” – You were back.
“I thought we were done doing business” – Dave started losing his confidence. Not knowing what the hell you wanted started to have its effect on him. Deep down, and after all he had seen and heard, he had to admit he was a bit afraid of you.
“Business?” – you tried to disguise your vulnerability. “So, I’m just another deal to you, huh?
“Yes…" –Dave looked at the ceiling – "And no? I thought you and I were benefiting from each other AND having fun.”
There was a silence that, by no means, you intended to float so heavy in the air.
“Well, I guess for me… it turned into something more than entertainment…”
You had to close the mic to drink from the Evian bottle. You hadn’t planned to spill your truth in the first minute of conversation but there you were. Finally, admitting it. Out loud.
Were you going to say the word though? One thing was for sure: you had never felt like this. Let's be honest: a 13 year old, lured out of her miserable home, from a miserable town, having her soul ripped by men and their huffs and grunts, every single night, for a decade, was never meant to be the fairytale princess archetype. And other 10 years of her life, just surviving, lowering her head, listening to the important conversations, connecting with the right people, even escaping slavery through a marriage of convenience with a kingpin, didn’t contribute much to her personal knowledge of what love was. Or is?
“Well, aren’t you gonna say anything?” – you demanded.
“What do you want me to say?” – Sat at the edge of the bed and in the absence of the woman confessing such feelings for him, Dave just kept staring at the wall. “That I still don’t know why I’m here?”
“Oh you do…” – you sounded darker – “Think”
“Wait… Do you wanna have sex with me, Killer Q? Is that it?”
Now you were the one laughing.
“Oh my God… Men. Why are you all so basic? – You were enjoying this – Do you really think that if I only wanted to fuck you, you’d be in that cell, without me all over you? C’mon, try harder, York…”
“Do I really have a choice…?” Dave mumbled.
He sighed and stood up, his brain trying to come up with what scheme could be the closest to the one in your mind. You made it clear it wasn’t sex. Money, maybe? Extortion. You were infatuated and planning to send some incriminating material to Carol. You surely could have set up the equipment to record your encounters. Vegas? Last Spring? That’s when Donna played over and over, right? Memorable.
You watched through the monitor and smiled at the sight of the supposedly cold mercenary, slightly blushing.
“What do you feel for me, Dave?”
“Right now, I hate you.”
“I doubt that, baby… I got a better idea. It’s getting late, I’m tired and I need to go to bed. It’s sad we can’t share it yet. We will. But first you´ll have to seriously examine your actions, thoughts and, most importantly, your feelings in the recent time" – you took a long pause – "so you can be more honest with your responses in the next three days we’ll spend together. Night night, David”
"What? Wait! Three whole motherfucking days here?!” Dave was equally outraged and concerned. “I’m hungry! And…” - he hesitated and lowered his voice – “What about going to the bathroom and…?”
Two sliding doors opened almost in unison. One, small and by the bed, produced a tray with some delicious seafood dish, a glass of Chardonnay and a generous portion of Creme Brulee. The other entrance, bigger and near the main gate, showed him a luxurious bathroom, with a change of comfortable clothes and toiletries.
“You have two hours until the lights are off”
Day ONE
Daylight bathed the cell and Dave was surprised by how soundly he had slept. It must have been some residual effect from whatever tranquilizer they gave him before getting him in the jet. Or was it maybe that he felt comfortable? Bullshit. He was the renowned CIA agent David York and this was a dangerous situation. Even infatuated as you claimed to be, you were a threat. And, come on… you didn’t mean anything to him. He’s had his pretty decent share of affairs and he had come to terms with his cheating asshole condition. You were no different from the parade of office girls who begged on their knees for one more night of cuffs, lube and discarded condoms, right?
Right.
Still in bed, Dave looked longingly in the direction of the food door, mentally begging for a black coffee, no sugar, scrambled eggs and bacon. Not knowing the time was slowly driving him crazy. He trusted his appetite and the sun elevation angle to say it was close to noon. Of who knows what day but it was something. He went to the bathroom and freshened up.
“Uhmm.. Hello?” — Dave talked to the air, in the hopes you presented once more, vocally. Not that he was particularly interested in hearing your voice again or anything. “I could use some breakfast, you know? By the way, dinner last night was awesome. If you tell me where we are, I would highly recommend this place on TripAdvisor!”
Nothing.
Nada.
Wait.
There was something.
Suddenly, and as if he was in a real hotel and some nextdoor honeymooners were doing what honeymooners usually do in hotels, Dave started to hear some lewd sounds coming from somewhere nearby. At first, it was barely audible, which made it difficult to pinpoint the source. But it rose to a crescendo, getting higher, clearer. Hotter. Dave realized it was not coming from any place near the cell but from the speakers crowning his prisoner bed.
“Give it to me, daddy…! Ohh…Fuckfuckfuckfuck… Yesyesyesyeyes!”
It was you. You were fucking some random dude and broadcasting it live and in stereo. For him to be the only audience.
"Ooooh Gooood…Yeaaah… Harder! Please! Please! Pleaaaase! I’m so close! Make me come! No one can make me come like you, daddy…!”
Dave was standing in the middle of the room, hands on the hips, smiling and shaking his head in disbelief. If this was your strategy, it was beyond pathetic. The skin slapping skin sound was getting louder and faster. You sounded so satisfied, kept moaning and begging. Dave had to admit that the guy was doing a great job. He wasn’t saying a word, he was just panting and grunting. There was something about him though. The noises he was making, the pace he was fucking you… The only sexual activity Dave had eavesdropped in his life was his dorm roommate, back in college, 25 years ago. And after all that time, he still recalled it was a lousy job. So, even though there were no parameters to be based on, in this case, Dave could strangely tell, just by listening to his performance, that for this guy it wasn’t just sex. What a loser, putting so much care into making you come, probably watching your face in ecstasy, proud of himself, thinking you’d adore him afterwards…
You came. Hard.
“What are you doing?” – Dave was done.
A giant screen popped up from one of the walls, revealing some truly NSFW scenes. So it was not just audio after all. There you were… and Dave York, fucking you senseless, chasing his own high in that Colorado cabin, last time you were together.
“You mean, what are we doing?” – you sounded so full of yourself.
“Take it off” – He was watching the video, weirdly mesmerized. - “Take. It. Off”
“Oh but here comes the best part! - You imitated a little girl who didn’t want to go to sleep.
“Take it off. Or I will “ – Dave grabbed the chair and walked in a menacing way towards the screen.
His movements in the video were frantic. His beautifully formed butt, hammering between your legs, was the star of the piece. He was about to watch himself reaching orgasm, with a woman who wasn’t his wife. What a piece of shit he was.
“Ooooh fuuuuuuck… unnngh… I fuck…ing.. I... fucking LOVE YOU…”
Dave dropped the chair and the screen went to black. It’s not that he didn’t remember saying that. The problem was that he had been trying to forget that he said it. He composed himself.
“You gotta be kidding me…” – he chuckled and calmly returned the chair to its place – “Really? What’s your point with all this?”
“I think it’s quite obvious, David” – you lit up a cigarette and reclined in your leather armchair.
“You know? I thought you were crazy, but with this, you’ve exceeded my expectations” – Dave didn’t try to conceal his rage anymore – “Do you really believe that the shit we say during sex is meaningful?!”
“I have a question for you, Dave. If this thing between us was nothing, why didn’t you stop calling me? Because let me remind you that it was you who looked for me. Not the other way around”
You were right. He desperately tried to find a plausible answer to your question. “Well, I guess it´s because you´re a great fuck, Q.”
“I am. In fact, I absolutely excel in bed. ” – You paused – “And yet, none of all the men I’ve been with, not a single one of those motherfuckers really wanted to see me again after a couple of times”
Dave remained in silence.
“Oh but you were only ‘having fun’ with me for, what? Almost 2 years now? – Yes, you were counting – “Until you cut me off completely, last week. Excuse me for only being sensical at reading this situation, York"
He had to admit you were right.
“So tell me… What happened? Little Carol found out about your feelings?”
“Don’t you bring Carol into this…”
“Oh but she already is! What was it? – You fake a gasp – Did you say my name while making love to her tenderly…?”
“Shut up!” – Dave almost growled.
“Sorry” – you said, sincerely.
“What?”
“I don’t want to antagonize you, Dave. It’s just…”
“Yeah. I guess that’s why you kidnapped me…”
“You gave me no choice, Dave. Look, I know you think I’m a heartless woman. I myself thought I was. This is my desperate measure, to my desperate times. I love you. – You fought the impending tears with all your strength – And call me crazy all you want, but I know for sure you love me back. That’s why you ghosted me. It scares the shit out of you feeling something like this for someone like me.”
Dave couldn’t think of any explanatory response. Because, in fact, he had none.
The little door suddenly opened, showing a bistec with a colorful salad, his non-optional lunch offer for the day, that went uneventful after your mic turned off.
Day TWO
Nothing had happened since the dawn of that second day. Dave hoped you were having second thoughts and maybe were planning on releasing him. He also questioned himself if that’s what he wanted. After a quick shower, he noticed night had finally fallen in whatever place this majestic prison was located. He had no clue what time it was and, honestly, he didn’t give a fuck anymore. While laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, which was the only entertainment he could find, Carol and the girls suddenly came to his mind. What would they be doing right now? He felt for them. Even though he had long come to accept that he didn’t love Carol anymore, he truly valued her. She was a great woman, a perfect mother, and at this point, a resilient wife. And his daughters… They were the most beautiful beings he could have produced and the only decent footprint he will leave on this Earth. What would they think of him if he divorced their mom? Dave mentally punched himself for considering that.
Complete darkness swallowed the cell. Of course, it was getting late for the daily event. All lights went dead except for the big screen that suddenly started showing some CCTV images. It was Dave’s street.
“Have you been to my home too, Q? Pfff, I don’t know why I’m surprised…”
There was not a comeback from your part.
After a few minutes, it was clear that the footage was an edition from different days, but at similar hours. Dave realized that in those cuts there was something concerning. The same man appeared to be jogging, but discreetly glancing at his house. Everyday. He was wearing different sporty outfits and anyone could think he was simply a neighbor trying to be fit. But for the trained eye of Dave York, it was easy to understand that that guy was something else. Something dangerous.
“Do you remember the job I got you, 6 months ago, for that Qatar minister? You and your men failed, Dave. They launched an investigation over the dude. And he eventually had to resign. Guess what? He isn’t the forgiving type. He came to me and asked for your personal inform…”
“You put my family in danger, you fucking psycho?!” Have you lost your mind?
“Do you really think that your family would still be alive had I done that, York?
“Q, you have to let me go” – Dave didn't want to joke anymore – “I need to warn them. Please, let me just do this and I promise, I swear on their lives, you can do whatever you want with me afterwards. Please.”
That pleading made you fall even more in love with him.
Dave kept watching the footage, terrified of what could be coming next. The video was fast forwarded and he could see as the jogger, who was running his usual target street, crouched and pretended to tie his shoelaces. All of the sudden, he disappeared behind a white van that passed by him and slowed down right where he was. He never reappeared after the van kept on going. A knife was left abandoned on the pavement. Exactly 15 seconds after that, the Mercedes with Carol and the girls turned around the corner, coming back from school. Now Dave remembered the night his wife had commented how weird it was finding that knife in the middle of their street. Dave didn't think anything of it.
"Sometimes I ponder how easy and convenient it would've been for me to let that "tragedy" to happen"
"What about Al-Salim? He could send more people…"
"He fell into depression. And sadly took his own life back in Qatar, the very afternoon this healthy man suffered a heart attack, at the entrance of the George Washington hospital. Dark coincidence, don't you think?"
Dave was at a loss for words for the longest moment. He couldn’t quite wrap his head around what you’d done for his family. For him.
"I guess… you don't need my services anymore. It seems like now I can hire you for this kind of job. Thank you, Q"
The screen went dead and it was pitch black again. Dave didn't know what to expect anymore.
"Aren't you curious about how I hacked your security camera? And your home intranet, DIA agent?" – your tone was playful again.
Your voice wasn’t coming through the speakers anymore but from right outside his cell. Like in a theatrical performance, the beam of a projector somehow lit up only you and your body. There you were, no make up, loose hair, sitting on a kitchen chair and wearing nothing but a white long dress. The powerful lightning made you look like a sexy specter.
“How are you Dave? Comfortable, I hope” – You crossed your legs and adopted the pose of a therapist who was about to have her first session with a new patient.
“I’m sitting in the dark. I like it” – Dave was not lying.
“I suppose you do. Tell me, do you also sit in the dark at home, late at night, when you Google me?
“Oh, please… Don’t flatter yourself, Killer Q”
“Please, your Honor! I have some unmistakable evidence to substantiate my case…”
You stood up and the projector revealed, over your curves, recordings from a computer screen, where your name appeared, over and over again, in searchings with a variety of word combinations that ultimately lead to the same topic: your romantic life. Your name + the terms “boyfriend”, “dating”, “partners”, “love life”, “marriage plans”, “past relationships”.
Dave felt his face on fire and thanked the darkness for concealing it.
“That could be anyone's computer”
The images of the hacked screen then changed to a divided layout of his deceitful puppy eyes, his hands on the keyboard in which he was entering the terms, all matching the dates and times of the searches you previously and sensually had helped showcasing.
“I think that’s your computer, agent York.”
You got up and came closer to the cell, took down the dress straps, one at the time, and let it fall to the floor. You could barely see Dave but you could sense his eyes roaming your naked body. Neither of you said a word. You ceremoniously came back to the chair and sat again, feeling the wetness that had been accumulating since he had thanked you for saving his family.
“I just know it, Dave. Please, just say it” – you begged with hooded eyes.
The projector was now bathing you with a soft shade of pink, matching the glistening between your legs, on full display for your prisoner to see. When you started circling your clit, your nipples rock hard even before getting undressed, you knew you were not going to last. On the other side of the bars, Dave was breathing heavily and his bulge began pulsing. He didn’t want to, he couldn’t give in to the need to pull his cock out and get himself off to the magnificent scene he was witnessing. He had always thought your body was glorious, even with your scars. Maybe, because of them.
“Baby… Mmmm… can’t you see? This is… all… yours… Oh… I… am yours…”
You were stabbing your cunt with two fingers, curving them at the right place, at the right rhythm. The sounds you were making, increasingly wetter, desperately faster. One foot on the ground, the other stepping on the spindle, you had definitely used that wooden chair for sinful exercises before. And your moans echoed in the room where Dave was. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you, gulping and palming himself, fully erect and finally doing what he very much had resisted. You could hear him and it turned you on even more. Almost standing up, you went back to your clit, frantically rubbing it, keeping your eyes fixed in Dave’s direction. When he saw you come, it was like looking at some goddess sculpture, with a gaping mouth expression, frozen in ecstasy for a few seconds, screaming his name right after. Spitting his hand and fisting himself, once, twice, thrice, Dave spilled his seed all over the tile floor. Panting and slightly sweating, still in the dark, he watched you approach the cell again, still naked and with a satisfied grin on your face. Your hand, still covered in your juices, went straight to grab one of the door metal bars and smudge it with your flavor. Then, you picked up your dress, gave Dave one last look and left. Everything went dark again. But before any light would turn on and gave him away, Dave rushed to the door and licked what you had left for him.
Later in the shower he had to take care of himself for a second time.
Day THREE
A huge smash woke Dave from one of the best sleepings he had had in a long time. The lack of proper rest in the past 48 hours had been highly balanced out by the self pleasure activities shared with you the previous night. In his haze, he could hear that there was some commotion out there but, again, he was unable to determine the source. “What is it gonna be today…” He rubbed his eyes and then rolled them.
Dave stood up and walked to the door, grabbed the bars and listened closely. There were two voices. They were arguing. And it didn’t sound pretty. “You don’t understand! It’s not because of you! That was definitely your voice. “Why the fuck do you even bother? With him? I always stood by you, you ungrateful bitch…!”
Chet.
Wait. Was that a lovers’ quarrel? Dave was baffled. He had always thought your loyal lieutenant was a rampant homosexual. “Chet, stop it, please!” You sounded more and more scared, on the verge of tears, almost. Dave’s heart started racing, his knuckles turning white while squeezing the bars of the door. It was like Chet was bringing the whole house down. Glass crashing, furniture flying, walls being punched. Then Dave heard a slap and a muffled gasp. And he lost it.
“Cheeeet! You coward piece of shit, leave her alone!!! You want me??? Here I am!! Come and get me, fucker!!!”
Dave started furiously kicking the bars, of course, to no avail. He searched and searched, for some sign of a door opening device, while he kept hearing your screamings. He scanned the cell and looked at the chair. The window. He probably was not going to be able to break it, or fit into it but at that point anything was worth trying. He stepped on the chair when suddenly everything went quiet. Fearing the worst, he stepped down. The screen turned on and there it was your face. Dave York never thought the day would come when he’d get to see you in such a state. Your hair in disarray, reddened puffy eyes, bloody lips and sheer terror plastered in your expresion. Still so beautiful. You were whispering to the camera installed in the control room from where you clearly operated all these days, looking to your side every five seconds, afraid of Chet entering any minute.
“I’m so sorry Dave! – you were sobbing but quickly tried to get yourself together – “There’s a panel… uhm… hidden, on the inside wall… it's the right side… No! Sorry! Sorry! Left side by the cell door! You give it a little push and…” – you froze and glanced at your flank – “It will show a big red button…You push it and it will open the door. Please, you gotta help me, please! He’s gonna kill me, Dave…! Forgive me, I was so stup…”
Suddenly, a giant hand grabbed you by the hair and yanked you out of the frame. The screen went dark.
Dave heard three gunshots somewhere nearby.
He rushed to the door and followed your instructions. Once he was free he ran like a madman. He didn’t recognize himself, feeling a desperation so uncommon for a cold mercenary like he had been for so long. It was corridor after corridor, and they all looked the same. The walls were slightly curved, lacking any pictures or decoration. The little windows above his head, just like in his cell, provided great lightning, but he couldn't help thinking it was like being inside a pantheon. He tried one door, then another. And another. They were all locked. It resembled a mental facility, Greek style. At last, Dave reached a T turn and when he looked, it was a long corridor on both sides. But to the left there was something he hadn't encountered so far: an opened door. In fact, it was ajar. Dave came to the frightening realization that Chet could still be around, armed. While he only had his bare hands. He cautiously entered and came across your control center. A dozen monitors, a camera, a microphone and a tumbled armchair. Some screens were still transmitting video from different parts of the house and Dave instinctively looked for the one broadcasting from his dungeon. He couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw you, laying still on the California King. Dave didn’t stay to check on your state through the monitor but ran through the door and raced the corridors again, trying to remember the path back to the place he had been for the past three days. Were you passed out? Or were you dead? Focus, Dave. Hurry up.
“Wow. For someone who only had fun with me, that’s… pretty moving, baby”
Dave had run so fast the last part of the hallway leading to the cell, that he virtually bounced on the ending wall. It would’ve been almost comedical if he hadn’t launched like an animal to the now closed jail door. When he desperately looked inside it, there you were. Unharmed, gorgeous, laying on your belly holding your head with your hands, looking at Dave with innocent eyes. Naked. He was trying to catch his breath, holding the metal bars, looking down. A smile, one that you had never seen on him, appeared on his face when he lifted his head and gazed at you.
“Let me in” – Dave said in a deep whisper. His smile was gone and his eyes were almost black.
“Have you had enough time to think about our conversations…?”
“Let me in”
“You know? I’m not so sure… What are your plans to spend this lovely afternoon in this cozy space with… me?”
“I want to eat”
Your cunt pulsed at those words. Dave looked indeed like a vampire.
You stood up and went to the opening panel, taking your time, walking painfully close to Dave, cold metal as the only barrier preventing him from pouncing on you. You finally gave a push to the red button and the cell was open. Dave stood still, leaning on the threshold.
“This isn't what I signed up for when I joined the DIA”
“What? Consorting with criminals…?”
“Falling for the fiercest of them”
Dave charged and lifted you in one powerful move. And you held onto him for dear life, your mouth colliding with his, so happy you could cry. You locked your legs around him while he carried you until you both crashed against the nearest wall. Dave stopped for air. He caressed your cheek and took a good look at your face, every inch of it, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening. He once again tried to devour your lips but you put your fingers on his mouth.
“Wait... Can I ask you something?
“Fire up”
You both giggled.
“I don’t want you to fuck me…”
“But…”
“I want you to make love to me”
Dave's perplexed reaction turned to a sassy one.
“How many orgasms do you think you can handle?”
“Five”
“I like those odds”
He put you down, laid back on the bed and went upwards in the direction of the headboard.
“Up, Q”
You moaned loudly when you sat on his face and Dave started his attack on your pussy. His tongue had been there hundreds of times now. And yet it felt like it was the first time he was licking and sucking your folds like that.
“Oh my.. God… Dave… Keep going, like that, please, oooh please…!”
His brown eyes alternated between being open and fixed on you and closed due to the pleasure. The noises he was making, how your juices began dripping down his stubble, the way he was gripping your thighs, everything had you riding him like there was no tomorrow.
“Dave, baby… Unnngh… I’m… Mmmmcoming… Please, make me come…”
Instead of fulfilling your wish, he pushed you away, making you lose your balance and falling on your back. But you didn’t even have time to protest since Dave was on you again, turning you around, on all fours. You felt his still clothed erection grazing your ass.
“Are you ready to receive my love, Q…? – He cooed in your ear.
“Yes, yes, YES!”
“All of it?”
“Give it to me…” –you sounded almost pathetic.
You heard him taking off his shirt and sweatpants and then slapping his cock. Ass up, your wetness was now going down your legs. Proudly licking his lips, where he could still taste you, Dave teased your entrance with the tip of his length and you squeezed the sheets in desperation. You cried his name when he entered you and couldn’t breath when he started his thrusting. Slapslapslapslap. His big hands sank in your flesh, keeping you in place so your face was pressed to the mattress, muffling your whimpers. Dave then lifted you, tenderly embracing you from behind and also reaching your clit and circling it with expertise.
“Are you close, baby? Hmmm? Talk to me…”
“Yes baby, I think I’m… explode… am” – you weren’t coherent anymore.
“Lay back…”
He gently pulled you back, making you lean on him, both now seated on the bed.
“Open your legs, Q. Open them wide”
You obeyed. Dave put one hand on the bed for support and the other one went straight between your legs. When you realized what he had in mind, you granted him more access, placing your hips forward.
“Two. Or three?”
“Three… is my lucky… number”
He then started fingering you. He went in and out frantically, making sure he was properly hooking his fingers to get to the patch of heaven inside your vagina. Your eyes went to the back of your head and you were unable to make any sound. Dave wished there was a mirror in front of the two of you so he could witness your cute O face. All of the sudden, a loud squelching echoed across the room and Dave grinned in anticipation.
“Here it comes, baby. Alright baby, alright, baby. Come on now”
“Ooooohhh mmmm... Ghhhhhhhaaaaah!!!!!
You felt indeed like something had exploded out of you. It was liquid pleasure like you had never experienced before. It kept on leaking, down your legs, down the bed, down Dave´s hand. You weren’t sure how to feel or what to do next. Dave continued encouraging you, kissing your earlobe and cradling you in his chest, waiting for you to get down from your high. When you were back on Earth again, you turned around and looked him in the eye.
“Love me, Dave”
He flipped you over, kissed you lovingly, fist himself a couple of times and entered you. His pace was now slow, with a calm he had barely known in his whole life, in any aspect of it. How long he’d pretended you were merely a substance trader who happened to cross his path of illicit choices. You kept your eyes open. You wanted to make sure he was there, that he was real. That he was David York. The mercenary, the federal impostor, the cheating husband, the lover you never thought you deserve. That this wasn’t another of your sex fantasies at night.
“I love you, Killer Q”
Dave increased his rhythm.
“Say it again”
“I. Fuckin. Love. You”
“Come for me, daddy”
Dave thrusts became erratic, his breathing increasingly difficult. You held his face, forcing him to look at you.
“I’m here, baby. Look at me. Give me everything you got. Fill me in”
Those words did the job. Dave groaned deep and long, as he spurted his hot load inside you. But he was not finished. With what was left of his magic, he intended to make you come one more time. In and out, in and out, in and out, just at the right angle, to burn your clit one more time.
And it happened that you burst into tears as you orgasmed. Dave kissed them dry.
“Don’t cry, Q.” – Dave stared at you adoringly –”Thank you”
“For what…?” You used the pillow case as a Kleenex.
“To show me what an idiot I’ve been all this time. I really deserve being hurt by Chet. Hopefully, he’s not around...”
You laughed.
“He’s with one of the new boys”
“Training him?”
“I don’t think so…”
#pedro pascal#pedro pascal characters#dave york#the equalizer 2#murder daddy#suburban bad boy#dave york x f!reader#dave york x you#dave york smut#dave york fanfiction#pedrostories1k
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i only need super minimal encouragement to talk about this soooooo ty @freetobeeyouandme lmao. been thinking about stranger things heist au again. and it got long into brainstorming territory so just... (waves hand vaguely) thoughts continue under the cut.
legacy families like the byers who never pulled high-end jobs, content in their little pond being small-time crooks incapable of understanding why jonathan, with all his flawless lifts and situational awareness, would try to reach above and start in on the big jobs.
joyce who met lonnie on a job and joyce and jonathan who protect will from lonnie's frustration when will turns out to be an awful thief who doesn't enjoy crime the littlest bit. (he does turn out to be quite the forger when the time comes, though.)
contrast with that the wheelers who are an all-american halfway happy law-abiding family whose eldest, nancy, walks eyes front into a life of crime to protect her friend and finds that it becomes inevitable, a sort of ceaseless need to keep going. who never wanted her little brother involved.
but apparently the wheeler siblings have some sort of crime beacon on them because of course nancy quite literally crashes into her brother trying to take down the same scumbag two towns over she is, although he looks at her like she's crazy when she lays out her plan and man, what her little brother has planned is actually pretty clever and much more subtle than the approach she was gonna take. they have ground rules, but she doesn't try to keep him from pulling jobs. she knows it'd be useless.
dustin is an incredibly bright kid with what may be a slight tendency to go overboard in the name of Science. he loves blowing stuff up every now and again, okay?! and also it's just criminal (heh) what some pharma companies do so he might be breaking into their headquarters and screwing with their formulas and contaminating their experiments until he figures out how to take them down permanently. sue him! (but please don't actually sue him, he hasn't found a great lawyer yet.)
lucas on the other hand was dragged into crime kicking and screaming. not something he ever wanted to do. (will will understand but then lucas kind of loses him when he did it anyway.) mike and dustin sort of kidnapped him into it, basically, when they were all still strangers, dustin and mike barely partners on this one con, and they'd needed a patsy who worked for the corporation they're stealing from. unfortunately they were still young and dumb enough to pick someone actually smart who trapped them in an office until they copped to their scheme at which point lucas demanded proof of their accusations which coincidentally was exactly what mike anf dustin were after. after that they can’t really seem to separate. he's turned into a jack of all trades, lucas sinclair - grifter, thief, hitter... even the occasional hacker. not the greatest at any, but good at all.
(we don't talk about erica who will one day give him a heart attack blowing up his whole carefully crafted alibi.)
steve, the getaway driver who hates his fucking job and is in it only bc there was p much nothing else to do until he finds people who show him there's a way to do it that brings him joy, when he knows what he's fighting for.
robin's a strange sort of grifter, not someone who immediately charms everyone in a room, but who knows how to make herself either invaluable or severely underestimated. she speaks like every language under the sun. like steve she has a certain aimlessness at first but unlike steve it's not due to having no ideas but more of a thing of having no options. until they're offered to her. then she's unstoppable.
max is out there somewhere being a thief different from jonathan, self-made and scared and on the west coast. but if they were to meet jonathan would recognize those gritted teeth and the hard work. it's not natural talent that made her so good at what she does but pure stubbornness.
el, on the other hand, is all raw talent and exploited for it for a long time when she's a kid. it's will who meets her first, who gives her an out, but when it lands him in trouble it's the other criminals who help her get him out. joyce, mike and jonathan develop an instantaneous protective streak for her. lucas isn't sold and dustin is mostly in love with her demolitions capabilities and nancy is hungry for the dirt she has on various government agencies.
#jumbled thoughts but i'm......... so attached#i have them far more ordered in my doc idk#stranger things#joyce byers#jonathan byers#will byers#nancy wheeler#mike wheeler#steve harrington#robin buckley#max mayfield#el hopper#dustin henderson#lucas sinclair#mike and nancy when holly gets arrested for the first time at 12: ..................... i don't know what we expected#their parents never know#anyway i'm tagging this as#heistverse thoughts#bc it's like... this hasn't left me alone in YEARS#emspeak
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Tell us now your top 5 most hated characters on ASOAIF and F&B please!
My no.1 most hated ASOIAF character is Tywin Lannister. I hate this man. I hate him very much. I wish he would go away and die somewhere where he will inconvenience no one but the vultures. I loathe his manner. I loathe his style. I loathe the fact that he dares draw breath in a world where my loved ones do not or rather cannot because he murdered them. I loathe that he was rewarded for behavior which, in-universe, he should have been quartered for. I want him dead. I want to kill him and destroy him. I want him died. #SCENE #ANGER #FUCK #DIE #HATERED
There is not a single ounce — not even a miniscule amount — of sympathy I have for this scumbag. Not a single thing likeable about him. Not a single redeeming quality he has to his name. From the first moment he showed up on page until the very last mention of him, he was nothing short of disgusting. He is diabolical, satanic, monstrous, loathsome, ghoulish, sadistic, cruel, insert every single synonym of the term demonic here, etc. etc. I hate him. I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him.
The whole “Yeah he’s evil uwu but Charles Dance is so granddaddy I can fix him <3" sales pitch this low IQ fandom has been pushing since the dawn of that accursed adaptation on top of it all only makes the intense disgust I hold for him so much fucking worse. Tywin Lannister has no conscience, no charisma, no morals, and he has no honor — all of that in an un-sexy way, one of the greatest crimes a villain with no traumatic backstory could objectively ever commit. Never mind the beyond immoral execution of the Red Wedding (“Machiavellian” my ass. Any stupid fool who says this crap needs to go back to elementary school in order to relearn how to read and how to interpret literature and themes in literature right the fuck now), never mind the severe mental torture he’s put his own flesh and blood through to the point where two of them are in a destructive incestuous relationship with each other and the other pushed to the point of patricide, this monster had his son's fourteen-year-old little child-wife gangraped by his guards, had each of them give her a silver coin after one was done with her, then had thirteen-year-old Tyrion rape her last and, contrary to the others, give her a gold coin because “Lannisters are worth more”. All because she was a common-born little girl who dared to marry the disabled son he hated so much. Am I supposed to think this piece of shit falls under the sexy evil category of villains? What sad backstory does this trash have to his name that would woobify him enough to “if villain bad why sexy” him? His father had a few mistresses after his mother died and gave them gifts and cared for them? Was that the tragic past of his that elevated him enough for people to wash their conscience clean so to cross moral boundaries all to lust after this so-called “sexy villain”? Tywin Lannister had his father’s mistress, who was nothing but a poor common-born daughter of a candle-maker, stripped naked and paraded through the streets of Lannisport for two whole goddamn weeks, and forced her to tell every man she came across that she was a thief and a whore, quite alike to what he did to Tysha as well. This man hates women. I cannot stress this enough, like Tywin Lannister hates women. And not just women, but especially commoner women. His modus operandi is inflicting sadistic sexual violence on any and all women he doesn’t like (which is like, all of them). As a true “if villain bad then why sexy” connoisseur and quite frankly, the president of the club, this man is not, never was and never will be a part of that esteemed category of villains.
And you know something that’s a veeery personal ick of mine — and this is really the icing on the cake for me — is shit-for-brains dickriders of this ghoul having the gall to pretend like he did not explicitly order the murder of Elia and her babies, that he apparently just “let” Clegane and Lorch loose on them. These low IQ fucks know what that demon did to his father’s poor mistress and what he did to little Tysha, and then somehow they still think this sadist with a severely fragile ego did not tell Clegane and Lorch to do what they did to her with his own mouth? Any waste-of-space who parrots this BNF-drivel (all said in order to minimize what happened to Elia, Rhaenys and the baby in place for Aegon) is not only going on my blocklist like immediately, they also need to die. Respectfully.
Now, I mostly spoke on his character from a moral standpoint, but I want to make clear that this loser’s shortcomings aren’t only morality-based. All the shit-for-brains stans this demon has know he has no morals so they always deflect to the “b-b-but he’s a military genius, that’s why I like him, I’m so edgy!!!” excuse and I want to emphasize how fucking stupid you have to be to believe Tywin is anything but brainless. AFFC is literally right there. GRRM’s explicitly spells out to the reader through Jaime’s POV how fucking stupid Tywin was in everything that he did. How the only show of military genius this demon had was through being nothing but a bully. All his work unraveled the second he died. He built nothing, and he will go down in history as nothing. That’s why his one and only legacy will always be that he got murdered on the shitter by his own son, like the fucking loser that he is.
I hate this fucking character with every fiber of my being.
On number 2 stands Aerys II Targeryen. Do I even need to explain this? What I said about Tywin applies to this racist, rapist, fascist piece of shit as well. I’m not going to waste my time and money psychoanalyzing this bottom-of-the-barrel trash. Aerys is the pinnacular culmination of three hundred years of Targaryen delusion, self-worship, egotism and five thousand years of Valyrian hubris, god-complex, and megalomania. Him and his daughter both, but I’ll get to her in a minute. This man’s lucky he’s only got 2 stans — and those two are only stanning just to be contrarians — unlike Tywin, who’s got an actual dedicated fanbase. Ugh. Two peas in a pod. One edge he has over Tywin is that at the very least Aerys has some sort of tragic backstory that’s actually valid. Too bad for him idgaf. Pour one out for Rhaella :(
My third most hated is ... Daenerys. Man… How do I even open this can of worms… I’ve a whole tag dedicated to hating her, soooo awkwardly waves hand in that direction. Everything about Daenerys is just so … racist. Racist on an in-universe level, racist on a meta level and racist on a fandom level, so I was never going to like Daenerys no matter what. The fact that she has the most insane and delusional and downright disgusting fanbase ever in all of media history really doesn’t help her case. If they hadn’t been this rabid and racist, then I don’t think I would have hated her this much. Because then I could’ve just had her character be as she is: the Paul Astreides of the series. A false Messiah, basically. The meta-level racism (GRRM making every single antagonist in her plotline nothing but walking, talking Reel Bad Arabs tropes; the use of POV trap which leads to none of the brown and black supporting characters in her story having a voice; GRRM’s own racism as in exotic-erotic tropes for all of the Essosi people, really badly researched POC cultures he based the Essosi off of, using brown and black people as nothing but props for the main white girl) and Daenerys’ in-universe racism (conquering and colonizing lands and peoples; white saviorism; imperialism; her hypocritical use of slavery) would still be there, of course, and I still would not have been able to stomach it meaning I still would not have rooted for her in any way, but then at the very least I would not have been subjected to a long decade of fandom racism being justified through the excuse of her freeing slaves from evil Reel Bad Arabs (spoiler alert: she is not freeing anybody).
Ugh, I don’t wanna talk about her. Everything about her from her character to the plot and storyline and her place in the narrative is downright insulting to me as a WOC, and quite frankly, any WOC that lays down their lives to defend this girl baffles me. Like, stop it. Please have some self-respect.
Then comes Jaehaerys the Old King. Father and inventor of misogyny. It’s crazy.
No. 5 is Rhaenys I and Daeron I the Young Dragon. EVERY TONGUE THAT RISES AGAINST THE DORNISH SHALL FALL!!!
#im sorry it took me so long to answer i have no excuse :(#asoiaf#tywin#aerys ii#daenerys#anti daenerys#jaehaerys i#rhaenys i#daeron the young dragon#anonymous#answered
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Thorns[Mammon x GN!Florist!MC]
Summary: a continuation of my previous work: Crown of Flowers! Basically, MC has their “talk” with the brothers and takes Mammon to get away from his brothers for awhile. If you haven’t read the first part yet, I recommend that so you can fully understand what’s happened!
CW: MC uses a lot of choice words, there’s a lot of angry MC— and basically the brothers suffer in their guilt(as they deserve!!), OOC?? 🥲
Author’s Note: I am literally SO sorry for how long this took😭😭 I rewrote this like five times and never finished any of them, I just could not get the motivation to do it😭😭😭 I’m so sorry and thank you vv much to anyone who has waited this long for part two!
ALSO this part dooooes contain an OC of mine(for plot purposes) but he’s not a huge part of the plot so you can mostly ignore him…unless you don’t want to😏
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“Sit.” MC said, crossing their arms. Most of the brothers sat, except Lucifer who stepped forward. “MC, what is—“ MC waved him off “Sit.” They repeated. This time, surprisingly, Lucifer complied. MC wondered idly if it were an effect of the pact, but quickly pushed the thought away to focus on why they’re here.
“We’re going to talk about Mammon.” MC said, causing an almost collective groan from the brothers. “What did that scumbag do now??” Asmo whined. Levi growled “did he steal something from you? I bet he did!” MC clenched their fists, unfolding their arms “shut up!” They didn’t mean to shout, but it did get the brothers’ attention.
“Mammon didn’t DO anything. I’m talking about how you all treat him like shit!” They scolded “and you just gave me a perfect example! You always expect the worst of him! Is it because he’s the avatar of Greed? He can’t control that! You all should be the LAST ones nagging about his avatar, when the rest of you are just as bad!”
The brothers were all taken aback, looking anywhere but MC. But they weren’t finished. “Mammon has been NOTHING but nice to all of you. Not once has he EVER insulted any of you, and yet you all bash him like he’s your personal fucking punching bag! Well he’s NOT!” MC’s voice began to rise again, all the brothers silent with shame.
“Why do you treat him like that?? I’ll tell you why! You’re all frustrated at the way your lives turned out and Mammon is the only one who refuses to fight back. He won’t hurt any of you, emotionally or physically, because he’s a GOOD big brother.” MC glared at Lucifer, who winced but held his tongue. “You all think that because he puts up with it, you can continue to treat him however you want and he’ll never leave you because you’re family!”
MC crossed their arms again, “that stops now. If you don’t have anything NICE to say to Mammon, keep your fucking mouths shut. I’m disappointed in all of you.” They turned to walk away, but stopped and looked back “Lilith would be too.” MC saw the hurt their words brought the brothers, but they couldn’t bring themselves to feel bad. Not right now.
“Mammon and I are staying somewhere else for the time being. I suggest the rest of you figure your shit out before you talk to us again.” They said before walking out the door.
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Later, MC lead Mammon up the pathway to a large house, though not quite as large as the House of Lamentation. Mammon frowned, unsure. “Are you sure this is..uh, okay?” He asked “n-not that I’m nervous or anything! Your friend should be honored to host THE great and powerful Mammon!”
MC laughed “yes, yes. It’s fine. I talked to him before hand, and he is quite humbled to have such an esteemed guest.” Mammon seemed startled, not used to others feeding into his act. He didn’t hate it, though. The door opened and he followed MC inside, looking around. The house was beautiful, like something he would be asked to take a photoshoot in.
A few steps into the house they we greeted by a man with long green hair and sparkling pink eyes. He smiled at the two, opening his arms wide as welcome. “Hello! I’m so pleased to have you both.” He said, taking MC’s hand and leaning to kiss their knuckles. Mammon would have felt jealous had the strange demon not done the same to him right after. Mammon’s face went hot, and he sputtered. “Wh..Why yes! Finally someone who knows how to act in the presence of THE Mammon!”
The man chuckled, turning to MC, who introduced them. “Landon, this is Mammon, obviously, and Mammon..this is my friend Landon. He’s a photographer.” Mammon whistled “that explains the fancy decor. Ya really like silver, hah?”
Landon nodded “yes…but I do think gold would suit you just fine…” there was an underlining to his tone that made Mammon flush, and MC grinned at him as they took his hand while Landon proceeded to give them a tour.
“And these are your rooms. There’s a joint door connecting them so you don’t have to bother using the hallway.” Landon said cheerfully, then pointed down the hall. “My room is just down there, so if you two need…anything. Just give me a call~” he smiled slyly, looking at the two with half-lidded eyes before he walked away. “Enjoy your night~!”
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MC and Mammon laid on the bed in one of the rooms, Mammon’s faced pressed to MC’s chest as they lay in comfortable silence. Mammon was the first to speak “will they be okay?”
“Hm?”
“…my brothers. Are they going to be okay without us?”
MC smiled “you’re a great brother Mammon. They’ll be fine. They need some time to realize how much you mean to them.” Mammon nodded, but spoke again after a short silence “It wasn’t all that bad. Beel never hurt my feelings. Belphie never really had the chance to. He was too busy hating Lucifer, anyway. Asmo was nice sometimes…he—“ MC squeezed Mammon, the white haired demon falling silent.
“MC…” MC hummed inquisitively, feeling wet drops land on their collarbone. “Why do I still want to defend them? It hurts, but I can’t let go…” MC sighed, rubbing Mammon’s back gently. “Like I said, you’re a great brother. They’re your family, and family is hard to leave behind. Hopefully they get it together so you don’t have to.”
Mammon just hugged MC tighter, sniffling. MC reached up to gently grab his face, lifting it so they could wipe his tears away. They smiled at him, running a comforting hand through his hair. “You’re so amazing, Mammon. I love you so much.”
Mammon’s eyes widened. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had admitted to loving him. The words felt like a little flame being lit deep in his chest, warming him from the inside. He found himself smiling back, though it was small and fragile. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to MCs. They wrapped their arms around him, pulling him closer. When the foreign feelings in his chest settled, Mammon realized he felt truly loved for the first time since he and his brothers had fallen.
It was wonderful.
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Author’s Note two: HIIIIII TYSM FOR READING THIS FAR!! Idk how good this was bc I just randomly got an idea and a wave of motivation after almost a year of not working on it💀 I knocked this shit out in like an hour so don’t mind meeee
#mammon angst#obey me angst#obeyme lucifer#obey me#writing#fanfiction#obey me fanfic#obey me mammon#mc x mammon#gender neautral reader#mammon x reader
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some (possibly) unpopular opinions
i don't like any of these and you're going to hear me explain why 💀💀
There's a part two to this, if anyone's interested.
Lady Baby
Sincerely: I Became a Duke’s Maid
Remarried Empress
When the Villainess Loves
Lady to Queen
Today the Villainess Has Fun Again
Finding Camellia
There Were Times When I Wished You Were Dead
The Duchess of the Glass Greenhouse
1. Lady Baby
this story felt like a fever dream, except the fever never fucking breaks because the pacing is so slow i could sucker punch Flash in the face and he'd still be roiling back from the recoil in the length of time it takes for her to just fucking AGE already. I know she's cute and the art is amazing but there comes a point where it's too much and you start to forget how old she really is. reincarnation or regression or whatever works because the mc can make decisions they hadn't before, and drive the plot quickly in a chosen direction.
where was she driving the plot? well, it was certainly Somewhere. perhaps in five years, give or take, we'll know exactly where.
Sincerely: I Became a Duke’s Maid
miss ma'am raised her husband. i refuse to elaborate on this any further. all i can say is i dropped it 5 chapters in and i think it saved me a great deal of mental strife. i thank past me every day for taking the steps to ensure this doesn't get recorded in my brain as a memory more than it already has.
Remarried Empress
no, i did not read the novel. however, i do know that the issues i have with it cannot be resolved even with supplementary information from the novel.
this story is about an empress, born and raised in aristocracy, flawless and perfect in every way, kind and wise to her subjects, divorcing her scumbag husband and finding a better man to become happy. now, i love navier. she's wise, knowledgeable, cool, charismatic, collected.
but she has no flaws. her second spouse is a rich sexy guy that falls at her feet to please her. the duke of another country pines after her, joining her sad lump of an ex-husband sovieshu in abject misery. she's got a parade of equally hot, rich, influential girlfriends to support her.
every character is there to serve navier and make her look good and in comparison, rashta has nothing but her looks, her ambition, her fucking audacity, and --truth be said-- her raging delusion. ironically, in the process of making her the biggest object of hatred, they also made her into the most complex, developed and interesting character in the whole story.
this had the potential of being something great. navier and sovieshu and royalty and politics paint a picture of these empires and kingdoms as full of prosperity and wealth --and yet slavery still exists. a truly amazing novel could've shown a partnership between rashta the slave, who has nothing, and navier the empress, who has everything, and their efforts to reduce social and economic disparities in the land. this shared, difficult goal would have immediately made every character more realistic.
AND the real villain in the story is sovieshu. i'm tired of the relentless, OVERWHELMINGLY more abundant commentary about 'trashta' this and 'trashta' that.
tl;dr: the story accomplishes what it sets out to do. but for this kind of simple, shallow storytelling, surely 100 chaps are enough to wrap it up???? like????
thank you next
When the Villainess Loves
i don't know how artists get contracted to work on a novel but this artist should have looked at the script and backed away pronto. everyone complains about this one. the majority of us prefer the second male lead with Libertia, which is already a failure in any romance story.
An overwhelming number of readers, me included, would much rather have OG Libertia, thank you. at least she'd have the sense to reject a man as shady as this daniel rando. he LITERALLY started involving himself in her affairs out of nowhere --and then he WOULD NOT leave, like??? go get a job or something? do you have any hobbies or friends or what?
Lady to Queen
a good angsty story has periods of calm and relief and humour that gives the main character something to live for and some hope for improving her life in the future. otherwise, i'm sorry, but it's just tragedy and tragedies are hardly ever written well. they rely on pacing that episodes updated every like two to three weeks just cannot provide. bonus points for the sisterly bond though, and how well the villain was written. i wouldn't have minded if the sister decided to push rosa-whatever down a long flight or stairs 👀
tl;dr: probably not for everyone. i enjoyed some aspects. probably better to read the whole story in one or two sittings.
Today the Villainess Has Fun Again
a typical misunderstood villainess isekai with a ton of money and influence does not make it bad. on the contrary, i was quite enjoying it, until that leopard boy inserted himself into the story with all the grace and elegance of a fucking rock. his personality pissed me off. his interdependence on her pissed me off. the physical age difference made me uncomfortable. the romance was forced.
tl;dr: no thank you
Finding Camellia
hi everyone and welcome to andrew tate's podcast, romance manhwa version. here you will find:
"InTeReStInG," said Male Lead 1 smirking smirkingly, coolly looking at the back of the Female Lead. he brushes his hair back with a careless hand, loosening his cravat in the other. he exudes an undeniable Aura of Alphaness.
"Don't talk nonsense," said Male Lead 1, obviously wanting to demonstrate his Superior Knowledge of our FL's habits and character (ps. it's been 2 weeks since they met again). "She doesn't want actual food for dinner, send her lollies instead."
"You infuriate me," said Male Lead 1, backing a vulnerable woman who had just been sexually harassed into the shadowy alcove of a deserted library. "I find you painfully attractive and it's obviously your fault, so stop."
"InTeReStIng," said Obligatory Male Love Interest #2, his overlong fringe falling over his eyes. Readers have to question whether he can see the FL's infamous beauty through the fucking keratin worms growing from his scalp down to his nose bridge.
Alpha Fight: Prince vs Duke of a Rivalling Kingdom. I know we have a monarchy here but status apparently doesn't matter --except when it does, to demonstrate their power and affluence to random people. If you're confused, good. so was i.
There Were Times When I Wished You Were Dead
to the ml:
fuck you
that is it.
The Duchess of the Glass Greenhouse
why has it become a manhwa trend for FLs to be treated horribly by everyone around them including their husbands and then they time travel or something and END UP WITH THE SAME FUCKING DUDE??? YOU ARE IN A MADE UP WORLD. FIND A BETTER GUY. GOD KNOWS THERE'S AN ABUNDANCE OF LOVE INTERESTS IN MANHWAS LIKE THESE.
#the duchess of the glass greenhouse#finding camellia#wished you were dead#today the villainess has fun again#when the villainess loves#sincerely: i became a duke's maid#remarried empress#lady baby#manhwa#you could point a bazooka at my face and tell me to read these all again and i'd tell you to blast my brains away. maybe then i can forget
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Clari ! I was listening to ethel cain today and her song Inbred (lol) is sooo touya-nii and reader ! I know you may not like it/listen to her because her music is similar to nicole dollanganger and I remember you saying somewhere that shes a lil triggering but! I just thought id share in case (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡
gore pop!! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) i can actually handle ethel cain a lot easier than i can handle nicole; there’s just something about nicole that hits so close to home, and i think it might be because we grew up so close to one another—she really captures the barren, desolate, absolutely eerie feeling of small-town ontario that’s so hard to explain if you didn’t grow up in small-town ontario AHAHA <3 ethel feels a little more removed from myself with her southern gothic type vibe n all that. i think they’re both absolutely phenomenal artists + lyricists though!!!
anYWAY enough of my rambling; i’ve heard inbred before and you’re literally 100% RIGHT it is so touya-nii. my favourite part is scumbag fuck but i swear that he’s not / he’s so good to me and to nobody else / so you should watch yourself because it’s just,,, it’s touya-nii and his little sister to a T. it’s he’s the best to me, he loves me so much, and he’ll fucking kill you <33
#one day i hope to be able to listen to nicole more without crying so hard hahaha#i can listen to a decent chunk of married in mount airy at least!!!#thank u for sharing my sweet friend!!!!!#yeah ethel is really fantastic#love her stuff so much#i don't listen to her a ton bcoz a lot of her work is so sloooow but it's so great for atmosphere and stuff like that#i just can't listen to her when i'm running LMAO#i hope you're having an awesome wednesday!!! <3#pls stay safe and ofc drink enough water!!#gore pop kill pop#clari gets mail
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Fallout 4 ask, how would you fix goodneighbor? It was pretty lazily done in game, and there wasn't much reason to go there aside from the memory den and Hancock
the towns in bethesda fallouts are always rough for, if no other reason, the fact that there's like 3 max in any given game, so I'm not sure there's a perfect solution. Still, emphasize more the fact that they're losers and scumbags coming together in a tight-knit community (contrasting diamond city and so forth) and drop or downplay the weird organized crime bits. It's the post apocalypse. In Fo2 it was still weird but at least the New Reno families were treated more like slightly gimmicky warlords than actual mobsters
Of course, Fo4 in particular has the odd problem where the writing by and large treats it like the Mojave Wasteland (you know, "Let's go to this spot out in the wastes for a meeting", "I'll just hop skip and jump on over to the next town, bit of a slog but no issue", there being room for hoity-toity 'aristocrats' and so forth) as if it's large and mostly empty and semi-civilized with occasional rough parts and periods. In contrast to how the actual game works, where there are parts of downtown Boston that are perpetual full-fledged warzones. Half the 'towns' in the game are about an hours' walk away through hell on earth. It just makes the theoretically cool (mileage may vary) spy and crime and intrigue and whatnot elements fall completely flat because, like, who gives a rat fuck about synths and heists and whatnot when there's roving packs of deathclaws and tribes of cannibal super mutants.
I think fixing those issues is a prerequisite to making the towns and microcultures work better.
And, needless to say, NV did it better since 90% of the threats were either new (NCR/Legion war, raider tribes pushed east by NCR expansion, Powder Gangers' escape from prison) or itinerant (threats like deathclaws and cazadores might move in somewhere and set up shop, but they've not been there since the bombs dropped, they're recent and they stay gone if gotten rid of). Everything respawning in fo4 in the vain pursuit of infinite content through radiant quests contributes heavily to how weird and hollow trying to accomplish anything can feel
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tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton for wip wednesday and @poetikat a day or two ago to share some of a wip!
taggin: @natesofrellis, @thomrainer, @adelaidedrubman, @strafethesesinners, @strangefable, @funkypoacher, @harmonyowl, @schoute, @aceghosts, @confidentandgood, and anyone else wanting to share anything they have (but no pressure, as always)
i just published ch 5 of fragile creatures and i don’t really work ahead, so everything i have for ch 6 is super rough, but here’s something that’s polished enough to share. it still needs a lot of work lmao but it’s better than the skeletons and single lines of dialogue/description or notes that are my other wips...
“So,” he sniffs. “Put any thought into how you wanna die?”
Pratt doesn’t look at him, or answer.
“No? You don’t give me any input and I’ll have to decide for you. And I gotta say, Peaches, whatever I come up with, you’re not gonna like.” He slices a piece of apple and pops it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.
He watches for any reaction, but Pratt gives him nothing. Just a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. Disappointing. Jacob thought he’d be a wreck by now. “Tell you what. I’ll give you a choice,” he continues. “One of two options. Either A,” he holds his index finger up, “I crucify you. Hike you up somewhere into the mountains and nail you to some trees and leave you up there all by yourself. Someone may find and save you. Or you’ll die a slow, agonizing death.”
Still nothing, save for the bob of his Adam’s apple.
“Or,” he says, holding up his second finger. “You’re shot. Back of the head. Executioner’s style. Hell, I’ll do it myself if you want. Nice and quick. Comparatively painless. Caveat is you gotta dig your own grave first -- assuming you want one. I’m not making my men waste their time putting your body to rest. Otherwise your body’s being fed to the wolves. Might be the only useful thing you’ll ever be good for.”
And Pratt still remains a statue, huddled in his little corner of the cage. The deputy isn’t a resilient man. He bows and bends at the slightest hint of pressure. Getting him to break had been easy. But for some reason, it’s here that he’s found some resolve. If Jacob were a more charitable man, he might even find his newfound conviction admirable. Pratt has only known Deputy Rook for only a few months, yet he’s confident she’ll put her neck on the line just to save him.
But Jacob isn’t a charitable man, and he thinks Pratt is naive and a fool.
“She’ll be here,” Pratt rasps, his voice rough from pain and thirst.
Jacob gives him a look. Amused but pitying, the same kind of look one gives a child who failed entertainingly at whatever task they were attempting. “Whatever helps you get through the day, Peaches,” he says.
annnnd here’s a snippet from the charlie/paola pre-ship fic that i’ll finish someday....no paola in this particular scene, but have some fun old fashioned heist planning with charlie + the lost legacy trio
He raises his hand. Chloe nods at him. “Yes, Charlie?”
“What are we gonna do about the provenance documents?” he asks.
Sam scoffs. “Provenance documents,” he parrots. “Lookat you using big boy words.”
“Fuck off, it’s a legitimate question,” Charlie bristles. “This guy’s a scumbag, but he’s by the book, right? Technically he bought the piece legally, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Chloe says slowly, and he’s suddenly a little uncomfortable with how everyone’s eyes are on him now.
“Then there’s gonna be a paper trail. It’s not gonna matter how long we sit on it, the second we try to fence it, alarm bells are gonna go off somewhere. And if it can get traced back to us…”
“Bad news bears,” Sam finishes.
Charlie points at him. “Exactly.”
Chloe chews thoughtfully on the inside of her cheek. “Okay, so we steal the provenance documents too. Easy.”
Charlie shakes his head. “Won’t be enough. We’ll need to get the digital files too.”
Chloe pulls a face, puffing her cheeks out and exhaling heavily. It’s so much easier to steal from other criminals. Nadine frowns, working her jaw as the cogs turn in her head, and Sam drums his fingers against the counter. Then he says, “I can do it.”
“Are you sure?” Chloe asks.
Sam nods. “You’re sending me in through the front door anyways. We’ll pick up a USB or something at the airport and I’ll figure out a way to get into his office. Easy peasy.”
They all know it’s anything but, but there’s no way to hash out a more concrete plan without actually getting eyes inside this guy’s mansion.
“What do we do once we have the documents, then?” Nadine asks.
Charlie shrugs. “Find someone who can forge them?"
“Do we know any forgers in Italy?” she asks the table. Both Chloe and Sam shake their heads.
Charlie awkwardly clears his throat. “Well, there’s Miss Orsini, right?”
The silence that follows his question drags on for an eternity.
Then Sam bursts into laughter. “You’re joking, right?” he says, wiping a fake tear from his eye. “After last time, I don’t think she’ll be too keen on the idea of working with us again.”
“Naw, mate, she just doesn’t want to work with you again,” Charlie responds. He doesn’t know much about the history between Sam and Miss Orsini, but he does know that the events of the previous job working with her put him squarely on her shit-list. But she seemed to still be on professionally amicable terms with both Nadine and Chloe last he heard.
“She’s a civilian, Charlie,” Nadine says dismissively.
“One who specializes in the preservation of both digital and paper records.”
“I have seen her literally pull ink off of paper,” Sam says quietly.
Nadine sighs. “Alright, I’ll talk to her. But I won’t make any promises.”
#wip wednesday#wip: fragile creatures#brain hasn't been good for writing recently but here's some stuff
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Mother Gotham and Her Beloved Children
This is yet another fic I wrote for the @batfam-big-bang, this time for @red-hood-redemption's gorgeous artwork, which they posted here! This one is a one-shot, so I'm posting the entire thing here, but you can also go read it on AO3 if you want.
[Warning for minor violence]
Selina had never been the sentimental type. Through a significant stretch of her life, everything she owned had fit in a single suitcase. Ever since her mom died and she was left alone, she'd never gotten attached to anything. If she left something behind somewhere, it was lost to her forever. She didn't grieve. She didn't linger. It was hers and then it wasn't. That was how her life had always gone.
When she left Gotham behind, she thought she would never look back. Her whole life, she'd been trying to get out of that god-forsaken hellhole of a city, to get away from the wretched slums she was forced to live in, from the skeevy club where she had to work with rancid, drugged-up men eyeing her like a piece of meat, and especially from her scumbag father. Although... he wasn't an issue anymore, was he?
Maybe she should feel something about that, anger or depression or whatever those stages of grief were supposed to be, but all she felt was relief. Now that he was gone, she felt freer than she had ever been, and the very first thing she'd done with that freedom was get the hell outta dodge. Her dark and ugly past was in that dark and ugly city. Her bright future was supposed to be anywhere else.
She had a whole world at her fingertips, so why would she ever go back to the rotten apple that was Gotham? Because she was born there? She'd been raised there? Because her mother, completely inexplicably, had loved that city? Ha! Of course not.
Sentimentality was the kinda thing that got a girl like her killed running back for something she left behind someplace in the middle of the night, or baselessly believing someone who fucked her over in the past could turn a new leaf. So why in the hell was she going back to Gotham? For one score? It wasn't any better than the DC job she could be pulling right now, just closer.
She could deny it all she wanted. She could pull out any excuse in the book to justify her choice to return. But she knew the real reason she was going back wasn't some ancient treasure in some museum.
It was Gotham.
It was like the city itself was calling her back, drawing her towards it, trying to bring her home—no matter how much she wanted to leave and never think of the grim, grisly town again. It was like, even with Falcone dead and her debts paid, the city still had some kind of hold over her. Even though it had killed her friend, and her mother, and chewed her up and spit her out, she owed it something, somehow.
Less than a year had passed, but a lot of the city had already been rebuilt since the Riddler flooded it. The stadium at Gotham Square Garden had been drained and torn down, but construction had already started on a shiny new one. The sea wall had been the first thing to get fixed, patched first as a stop gap, then rebuilt taller and stronger. Given actual security measures so no one could drown the entire city with seven rental vans and a few homemade explosives ever again.
The fact that it had happened even just the once was a testament to what a shit-hole the city was, and how downright awful the people who lived in it were. Not that Selina needed any more evidence than her own personal experience had already given her. She had known that all her life, it was why she wanted out so badly. And she'd gotten out. She'd had exactly what she wanted after the flood. She was free, and gone, racing away as fast as she could, like a cat outta hell.
Now, here she was, driving back across the Brown Bridge on her motorcycle.
Driving ever closer to the hell of her nightmares.
And yet, rather than feeling like she was a helpless kitten, trapped in a sack and drowning in a river... she felt like she was coming home. Like the city was embracing its prodigal daughter.
It made her stomach turn.
She wouldn't be staying, she told herself. She was only there for that museum exhibit, the Jewels of Jeresta, which was on display at the Gotham History Museum, on loan from a small country in South America whose name she couldn't rightly pronounce. God only knows why anyone would let a valuable treasure like that within a hundred square miles of Gotham City, but she sure as hell wasn't about to let this golden opportunity slip past her. Gotham was her home turf, and she knew that museum top to bottom, backwards and forwards, inside and out.
All she had to do was make sure she didn't run into Vengeance and she would be in and out and gone like a whisper on a breeze before the police knew the treasure was missing. Of course, avoiding the Batman was easier said than done.
Even having met him, the Batman was a mystery to her, almost, but not quite, a myth. They said he was the shadows, that he could be anywhere at any time, and that he knew every single thing that happened in the city of Gotham. And though she knew that wasn't entirely the truth, a part of her, however small, still sort of believed it.
Once, Selina had even heard some batty theory that he was the soul of the city itself, a physical manifestation of it. She had laughed at it then and she laughed at it now. Batman was smart, and strong, and resourceful, but he was just a man. Albeit a strange, obsessive, mysterious man, but a man nonetheless. And she was an expert cat burglar. And Gotham was a big city. Surely, she could hide under his nose for a few short days without too much of a problem.
Once she was in the inner city, she got herself a hotel room. She could afford a pretty swanky one these days, between the money she had stolen from Falcone and the jobs she had pulled while she was away, and she wasn't about to deny herself any luxuries after a lifetime of struggling to get by. As soon as she had her cat taken care of—Patch, the only one she'd been able to take with her—she prepared to case the museum.
Selina already knew all of its standard security measures, of course, this was hardly her first time around the block, but there were bound to be some extra features set in place for the jewels.
There was going to be some big, fancy, charity party at the museum to reveal it. Several of Gotham's elite had already been invited to it, but anyone could buy a ticket, and the proceeds and donations were all split fifty-fifty between a foundation for the cultural restoration of the country who'd loaned the exhibit, and another one for cultural enrichment right there in Gotham. Selina, of course, had bought her ticket online in advance.
A year ago, before the flood, she might have been pretty worried about some of the people there recognizing her, and there was still a decent chance that some would, but since Falcone's death, and the inauguration of Mayor Reál, a lot of the city's old fat cats had been replaced with new ones, ones who wouldn't know her face, or at least not as well. Still, she had decided that a new wig and some heavy contouring were in order.
She had chosen the name Catarina Abbot as her cover, and she'd been practicing a traditional southern belle accent as well. No one would ever suspect it was really her, of that, she was all but certain. Or at least, no one who wasn't already in on the con.
It didn't take her too long to get ready, although the stark contrast between the sleek black gown with its rhinestone trim extending down to her ankles, and the tight club outfits she once wore that never dropped below her mid-thigh, would take a little bit of getting used to. She took a taxi to the museum, stepping out onto the long, maroon carpet that had been laid out from the curb all the way to the front door. Clouds hung low in the sky, but the weather forecast had promised that it wasn't going to rain, and it hadn't yet. Selina wasn't about to start holding her breath for it to stay dry though.
Gotham and rain were like cats and claws, to remove the latter from the former would be inhumane. Gotham needed rain like it needed gargoyles, and lead paint, and the sound of gunshots varying distances away every half-hour. These were the things that made it uniquely Gotham, and not some other urban city that smelled like pollution and hot garbage, and looked haunted beyond belief.
Selina smiled at the news cameras, waved, said nothing. As soon as she was inside, her shoulders drooped with relief. Hopefully the makeup was enough that no one would be able to recognize her in the photos, at least not for long enough that she could make her getaway with the goods. She unconsciously tightened her grip on her clutch purse, her sharp, expertly manicured nails digging into the black satin, and sashayed confidently toward the wall.
The main hall of the museum, where the party was being held, had high, arched ceilings with a row of short, wide, windows at the top of the walls. Colorful paintings of nature by a long dead local artist of some renown hung liberally on the cream colored walls, with little brass plaques next to each, declaring the titles and some commentary of the paintings. In the center of the room, was the same tall, black marble statue that had been installed when the museum first opened, decades ago, of a woman cradling a pair of snarling grotesques like babies in her arms.
If Selina's memory served, there had been quite a lot of controversy around the statue. The artist had been commissioned to create a statue which encapsulated natural history in Gotham, and there had been a minor uproar about what the artist had actually delivered not fitting the bill. The artist had argued intensely in the statue's favor, and in the end, refused to make a new one, but accepted a reduced payment for the commission provided they actually displayed it, and as the museum had not had enough money to hire another sculptor, the statue remained.
It was called Mother Gotham and her Beloved Children, and as the years passed, patrons and employees of the museum alike grew quite fond of the marble woman and her monstrous young. Selina herself had stared at it in awe for nearly an hour when she'd gone on her first field-trip to the museum as a schoolchild. She couldn't help staring at it a little, even now. They sold smaller versions in the museum gift shop, when the museum was actually open—paper-weights and key-chains. Perhaps she should come back during normal hours and buy one.
She tore her gaze away from the statue to take in the crowd of guests. Women in luxurious gowns, and well-dressed men in suits mixed and mingled throughout the room. Many of the men stared at her, even here, but not in quite the same way they did at the Iceberg Lounge. Their lasciviousness, though certainly present, was much better concealed. It was a nice party, after all, and they had to be on their best behavior. A woman in a dark purple gown, one with layers of tulle and ruffled shoulders, stopped Selina to compliment her on her dress.
"It suits your figure so well, dear, wherever did you get it?" the woman asked.
"Versace, I believe," Selina laid the accent on thick, but spoke casually, as if she couldn't be bothered to remember which luxury clothing brand had made the most expensive gown that she had ever worn in her life. "But of course I never wear anything that I haven't had fitted by my personal tailor. I do say, she's an absolute miracle worker."
"I can see that," agreed the woman, looking Selina up and down enviously. "Although with a waistline like yours I'm sure it's not too hard to be. Delia Maracus," she introduced finally, gesturing to herself with one hand, and then to the rest of the museum with the other. "My husband, Simon, is the museum curator."
"Catarina Abbot," Selina introduced, placing a hand delicately over her sternum and tilting her head politely, "Collector of fine things."
"Ooh, well doesn't that title have a nice ring to it," Delia remarked, her golden curls bouncing as she leaned closer with interest and then back again with a gentle shake of her head. "I wish I could call myself something that classy, but all I collect are vintage perfume bottles and dusty old books." She laughed at herself, and Selina smiled gracefully.
"Those things are plenty fine, Miss Delia," she said kindly. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all. I just so happen to be partial to a cat's eye."
"That's nice of you to say. I've got more of a sheep's eye, most of the time, ha ha." Delia's attention was diverted by something over Selina's shoulder. "Looks like I'm needed elsewhere. It was so lovely meeting you, Miss Abbot, do enjoy the party, won't you."
"Please, Catarina," Selina told her, stepping aside so she could walk past. "And thank you, I intend to."
The Jewels of Jeresta were displayed under bulletproof glass casings in a smaller exhibit room off the main hall, all the way on the far side from the front entrance, and Selina began to make her way toward it as inconspicuously as she could—slowly, keeping to the edges of the floor, smiling politely and making idle small talk with those who approached her, putting forth a concerted effort not to be too reciprocal of their interest in her, so as to discourage them from taking too much of her time.
Then a small voice spoke from behind her. "You look beautiful." Selina turned to see who had spoken, and when she saw him, she blinked in surprise. Though he was quite a bit taller than her, the slope of his shoulders and the angle of his head made him seem slightly smaller than he actually was. His eyes were fixed on her face, but didn't quite meet her own eyes. "My name is Bruce."
"I know who you are, Mr. Wayne," she told him. Reclusive as he was, or had been before she skipped town, everyone in Gotham knew who Bruce Wayne was. She had heard that he'd started making more public appearances ever since the flood, but she definitely hadn't expected to run into him herself during the brief period while she was back in town. He smiled when she spoke, a small, sweet smile, with a hint of humor in it.
"Bruce is fine," he told her, his eyes finally locking on hers for a few seconds before they shifted away. She thought it reminded her of someone else, but wasn't sure. Maybe it was more of a vague aura than an actual person. He certainly had an air about him. "And you are?"
"Catarina Abbot," she said in answer. "You may call me Catarina, if you'd like."
"Catarina," he repeated, and that hint of humor flickered a little brighter behind his blue eyes, like somehow he got the joke, even though there was no way he could have. "That's a lovely name."
"Why, thank you."
"Are you an aficionado of culture, history, or rare and beautiful treasures?" Bruce Wayne asked, swirling the honey-colored drink in his champagne flute. "Or are you just here for the champagne?"
"I have been noted as a collector of fine things," she answered after allowing the joke an airy laugh. "An experience like this one is a fine thing indeed."
"So the treasures, then. Have you seen the exhibit yet?" he asked. "It's quite a sight to behold."
"I've been moseying that way," she admitted. As a guest, she was all but expected to go back and look at the exhibit at least once. There was nothing suspicious about that. "I have been looking forward to it for some time."
"I'd be happy to escort you," he offered, extending an arm for her to take. Though a bit surprised, she accepted, and allowed him to walk her back to the exhibit room where the Jewels of Jeresta were being displayed.
The jewels were breathtaking, and she couldn't wait to steal them. Unfortunately, with Mr. Wayne in the room, watching her with that dopey look on his face, she couldn't look too closely at the security measures without arousing suspicion. Selina made mental notes of the ones she could see without being too obvious about looking. Cameras, of course, motion sensors, the glass casings were sealed against the display podiums, but she couldn't see the release mechanism from where she was standing, and trying to look behind or under would be too obvious.
"Gorgeous aren't they?" Bruce Wayne asked her, and she was struck again by just how soft his voice was. She'd never imagined a billionaire CEO would speak in such gentle tones.
"They are just ravishing," Selina agreed. "Some of the most stunning pieces I have ever laid eyes on. Why, it's a privilege just to look at 'em. I ought to thank the museum curator for his good work."
"I'm sure it was no easy feat, convincing the country of Sanamiguay to loan a collection like this to Gotham," Bruce said. "They've loaned these jewels to museums around the world before, but Gotham's... reputation tends to deter some."
"A reputation well deserved," Selina scoffed, her accent almost, but not quite, slipping as she said it.
"Perhaps," Wayne agreed, nodding and looking back at the jewels behind the bulletproof glass. "But I have faith that Gotham can change. At least, I think it's worth the effort to try."
"Why, Mr. Wayne, you're much more of an optimist than I ever imagined you'd be," Selina remarked. "Listen to you, all starry eyed and dreaming of sunshine."
"Have you lived in Gotham long, Catarina?" he asked. "Judging from your accent, I'm guessing you're not from around here."
"No, I'm from Georgia, the city of Savannah," she told him, "but my family's done business in Gotham since I was a girl. I've seen the city you have faith in, and I wouldn't be so bold as to say that faith is misplaced, but... well, let's just say that I am not of the same opinion."
"I guess you're not entirely wrong to disagree." Wayne shrugged and shifted his weight so he further obscured the camera she was trying to see behind him. "Most people disagree with me. I just don't think everyone should be so quick to write this city off as a lost cause. At the very least, we can have a little hope, can't we?"
"I suppose."
Wayne kept her talking for some time before someone finally interrupted them and dragged the man away, his face scrunching up in displeasure for a moment before he visibly forced a more pleasant expression and allowed them his attention. When the opportunity presented itself, finally, to properly inspect the room, Selina took it. Then she slipped away, out of the exhibit room, and out of the museum, before Wayne tried to engage her again.
It wasn't that she didn't like the man, but he seemed to like her a great deal, and she couldn't afford someone like that getting attached, not when she was planning to disappear without a trace after the job was done. Men with his resources could find her anyway, if she wasn't careful, and in her experience, no matter how polite and seemingly respectful they were, wealthy and influential men could not be trusted.
The next few days, she spent planning her heist. Marking up her entry and exit routes, acquiring or making the necessary tools to enact her plan without any snags. She had every detail accounted for, from the entry to the escape, as meticulous as her pointed nails, and as clear as her objective.
She broke in through one of the high windows, scaling down the wall on a rope she'd tied to the roof. Those windows didn't lock, since they were considered too high up to present a viable security risk. The room with the Jewels of Jeresta had no door, just a wide arched entryway with motion detectors near the floor which activated when the museum closed, but were laughably easy to step over.
Upon inspection, she saw that the sealed glass covers required a key-code to unlock. Lucky for her, she had no intention of unlocking them. She had gotten her hands on a diamond-edged cutter, which she used to slice a circle into the bulletproof glass and reach inside for the jewels. Diamonds really were a girl's best friend.
So far, everything had gone off without a hitch, which of course meant it was time for someone to throw a wrench in her well-oiled machine.
"I'd almost be impressed if I wasn't so disappointed in you, Selina," came a voice from behind her, and she whipped around to see the Batman standing there. "I've already set off the museum's security alarm. The cat's out of the bag. Police are on their way now."
"Then I guess it's time for me to go," she said, snatching up the jewels from the case she'd already opened and sprinting at the Bat. She had hoped that, by rushing him, she could catch him off guard and slip past. She should have known better.
Her back slammed hard against the wooden floor as he hit her in the chest and shoved her down. She was only pinned for a moment before she wriggled out, wrapping her legs around his neck and forcing him sideways before he wrenched her off of him.
They continued their little back and forth with Batman snatching the jewels from her grip one after another and Selina slowly rotating the fight until their positions in the room were switched. Her hands were empty by the time she was on the other side of the archway with her exit route finally clear, at least until the cops arrived. She wished she could nab at least one of those jewels, but if she didn't split now, she'd be caught.
"Thanks for mucking everything up for me again, Vengeance," she sneered at him, and sprinted full-tilt back to the rope she'd climbed in on, scaling it with record speed and cutting it behind her, letting the Batman, who was climbing up after her, fall to the floor. "This was supposed to be easy. Damned Bat."
She wouldn't admit, or even acknowledge, that it had been kind of nice to see him again, despite the circumstances. To see that he hadn't gotten himself killed on his stupid mission just yet, to fight with him, that little back and forth that constituted the first contact she'd had with the man since leaving. No. She was too frustrated to acknowledge any of that.
She ran and leapt across the city rooftops with feline grace, and was halfway down the block before she saw him chasing after her. Apparently the setback of the rope being cut hadn't slowed him down for long. She cursed under her breath and sped up, running as fast as she could as long as she could.
Glancing over her shoulder every few minutes, she kept going, and going, waiting for one of them or the other to trip, let coincidence decide her fate, whether he would catch her and turn her in, or whether she'd escape to steal something else another day.
Finally, she came up against a rooftop with nowhere to go. She couldn't turn, the gap between the roofs on either side was too wide for her to jump it, and she couldn't keep going straight unless she wanted a three story drop into a face-full of sand, broken glass, and whatever other shit ended up on Gotham Beach. Selina skidded to a stop before she accidentally hurled herself over the edge, and looked frantically around for another way out, finding none.
Taking heaving breaths, she tried to recompose herself, and she looked back at the man in pursuit of her. Once he got to her, she'd have to fight her way out again, and she didn't really like her chances, if she was being honest. Her experience and lithe body gave her the edge over a lot of opponents, but not Vengeance. He was bigger, stronger, just as fast, and as much as she hated to admit it, more skilled. His training must've been a lot more extensive than hers.
By the time he reached her, she still hadn't caught her breath, but she stood her ground nonetheless, and lashed out with her nails, aiming for the few square inches of flesh his suit left open. He blocked her easily and countered with a fist, which she narrowly dodged. Their exchange of blows continued, back and forth, a kick blocked, a swipe dodged, an elbow landed, but the recipient recovered quickly.
"You ruined everything!" she complained through labored breaths. "Do you have any idea how much money I would have made on that job?!"
"Is money more important than a nation's cultural treasures?" Batman asked. "More important than your city's reputation?"
"This city's reputation is garbage already," she insisted harshly. "You don't get to decide how I live my life, Vengeance."
"I'm not," he said, dodging another slash of her nails and countering with a sweep of his legs which she somersaulted over before launching herself into his abdomen. "But your life circumstances don't make you above judgment," he grunted, forcing her off of him, "or the law. You're free to do what you want, but not free of consequences."
"You couldn't have left me alone for one damn job?" Stumbling slightly, she regained her footing, but was too winded to attack again. She thought for sure he would be on her as soon as she stopped moving, but he wasn't. He allowed her to catch her breath, his imposing figure blocking any exit, but not making any attempt to catch or cuff her.
"No. Because stopping crime in Gotham is my job."
"Well, you've done your job now, crime stopped," she panted out. "You can go now, unless you plan to put me in handcuffs. That could be fun."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" His voice was as deep and even as it ever was but she would almost think those thin lips of his turned up at the corner, ever so slightly.
"Isn't that what you law enforcement types are into?" she asked, smirking back at him. "If that's what you wanted, you didn't have to go through all this trouble." He took a step forward and she almost took a step back, but she stood her ground.
"You seem... different now," he told her, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
"What do you mean?" she asked. He took another step forward, and she straightened her posture, almost daring him to keep closing in on her and see what would happen. He'd already chased her across two and a half miles of rooftops. It was a challenge she knew he'd take.
"Since you've left... you shoulder less," he said. Another step closer, and this time she had to fight herself not to meet him halfway. "Or you carry it differently."
"I like to call it financial security," she purred, then shrugged vaguely before adding, "and the knowledge that the bastard abuser who probably killed my mom, definitely killed my friend, and tried to kill me, is six feet under. I sleep a lot better these days."
"You really feel that much more comfortable knowing he's dead?" Batman asked her, disapproving but obviously unsurprised.
"I really do," she confirmed, and finally took a step his way. The sky was growing lighter, she noticed. The sun would be rising soon. "Don't you sleep better knowing a bastard like that is off the streets?"
"Someone else has already taken his place," came the response, and he took another step. The space between was only a few feet now, but it felt impossibly wide. At the same time, she wanted to close it and wanted him to stay far away. "That's how it goes. A falcon, a penguin, there's always someone that needs to be stopped."
"And a Bat's gonna stop them?" she asked, a light scoff on his name as she edged ever closer, but never quite close enough.
"I'm gonna try," he said. "Although, you certainly don't make it easy."
"Oh, come on, Vengeance, if it was easy, it wouldn't be fun," Selina teased, resting one hand on her waist and reaching the other up to his face. They were so, so close now, almost pressed up against each other. All she had to do was dig her claws into that pale flesh of his face, and she might distract him long enough to disappear. Her internal debate didn't come to any sort of conclusion before he caught her wrist and held it in a firm but gentle grip, rendering the question moot. "You do know what fun is, don't you, Vengeance?"
"I've heard of it," he answered, his voice so deadpan she let out a huff of laughter. Ever so gently, ever so sweetly, she pushed her hand further, caressing the side of his face, his mask, and his own grip loosened, his heavy black glove sliding down her forearm to settle on her bicep. She had to lean back, to look into those sharp, bright eyes of his. Absently, she wondered if he was wearing those strange video contacts he'd had her use to scope out 44 Below. If he was—and he probably was, since he was a paranoid son of a gun—they really weren't visible from the outside.
The sun was rising. Though the sun itself was hidden behind the city's ever-present cloud cover, it bathed the Gotham skyline in a beautiful orange-yellow glow as it crept up over the churning sea. The scene was too perfect, too beautiful, and Vengeance must have thought the same, because as she stood up on her toes, he leaned down to meet her, and their lips pressed together in a kiss, soft, but needy, gentle, but charged with emotion.
She deepened the kiss and he raised no complaints.
Then, finally, after a very long moment, which felt simultaneously like not nearly long enough, they broke apart. He searched her eyes, and she searched his, but what either of them were looking for, Selina didn't know. Then the Batman took a small step back, and released his steadying grip on her arm.
"Don't try to steal the Jewels of Jeresta again," he said firmly.
"What?"
"They should be appreciated through glass, and then returned to their country," he said. "Leave them alone from now on."
Selina looked at him curiously, wondering what was going through that head of his. "Alright," she agreed at length.
"Then go." She blinked at him in shock.
"That's it?" Her shoes clicked against the rooftop to punctuate her surprised step backwards. "You're letting me go? Are you even gonna call the fuzz?"
"I can still change my mind," he reminded her, and that was all the incentive she needed to walk slowly back toward the other edge of the roof and climb carefully down the drainpipe to the ground.
Once safely back on the sidewalk, she took off at a run toward where she'd parked her motorcycle. It was still there, even after several hours, which was a bit of a wonder, given the locale. She straddled it, revved the engine, and took off toward her hotel to pack up and get out of this city once again.
Patch greeted Selina at the door of the hotel room. He meowed softly and she knelt down to stroke the silky fur between his ears. "It's time to leave, again," she told him, stepping past the cat with purpose. She gathered together all her things, and packed them neatly away in her suitcase. This time, when she left Gotham, she really wouldn't be coming back. This time she'd go somewhere farther away, Metropolis maybe, or maybe somewhere even farther than that, like Chicago, or Detroit.
Anywhere but here.
For years Selina had been telling herself that same thing. Anywhere but here.
"Come on, Patch," she said, scooping up the cat once everything else was in her suitcase. He didn't complain when she gently placed him in the cat carrier. He'd always been so well-behaved when it came to traveling. It was what enabled her to take him with her when all the other strays she had taken in had to be left at an animal shelter. "Time to go."
It took one trip to take everything she had down the elevator to check out of the hotel. She secured Patch and her suitcase to her motorcycle, and she was off again, driving down the streets of Gotham, still early enough to beat commuter traffic. Skyscrapers flew past as she rode down the city streets, neon lights blurring in her periphery. Mist from the perpetually damp streets rose up in a plume behind her.
She was ready to leave this god-forsaken city in her rear-view mirror for good this time. Or so she thought.
The sea wall was in her sights, and Selina didn't slow until she'd almost reached Brown Bridge. Then it was looming in front of her, its towers a gateway to a greater world than Gotham, and yet... she veered to a stop, staring at it. She'd told herself that across the bridge was freedom, was a new life, but she'd already crossed it once, and already, she was back on the Gotham side again.
She'd had her freedom, and with it, she had returned home. She had enough money for now to live the life she pleased, to steal what she wanted and make even more without having to worry about resources. Freedom meant she could do or have whatever she wanted.
And yet... all her belongings still fit in a single suitcase.
She could carry everything she owned in the whole world on her motorcycle.
Maybe freedom wasn't packing up and leaving, going somewhere new every week, and never having any place to come home to. Or maybe it was, after all, what did Selina really know about it? She had been trapped under the thumb of rich assholes, of poverty, of debt, fear, and shitty circumstances her entire life. But if it was, maybe that wasn't the kind of freedom she really wanted.
Maybe freedom was traveling the world, stealing what she wanted, and then coming home, to a nice apartment with more than just Patch, who would get lonely all by himself while she was away. She twisted in her seat to look at Patch in his carrier, at the black duffel bag that held all her mortal possessions. His big yellow eyes stared back at her, glistening in the early morning light.
As a kid, living in an orphanage, the thing she'd wanted most in the world was an actual closet, and not a black garbage bag stuffed under her bed. She had wanted to be one of those women she only saw in movies and magazines, with a new dress every day and dozens of pairs of shoes, and jewelry for every occasion. That had been her idea of decadence, of luxury. She owned two pairs of shoes now, six outfits, three wigs, and hardly any jewelry. It wasn't like she couldn't afford it.
Maybe it was time for Selina to try being a pampered house-cat for a while... after all these years of being a stray. If she didn't like it, she could always go back. If she kept running, she might not have this chance again, this chance to have an actual home. Her hands moved before she had consciously made up her mind, revving her motorcycle and making a U-turn back into the city.
She could spend another few nights at a hotel while she looked for apartments, then once she was settled in, she could look for her next score, and it could be anywhere in the world. And when she finished the job, she would have someplace to come back to. Back in Gotham. Back home.
She rode back past the dingy buildings, past the broken signs and flickering lights, past the cracked sidewalks, past the boarded windows. It was a shit-hole of a town, and that would never change, she was sure. But she'd never truly hated Gotham for what it was. It was a filthy, crime-ridden city full of wretched, awful people.
But it was also full of empathy, of compassion. Not from the crime-lords, and gang-bangers, and skeevy, greedy socialites who cared only about themselves, of course. But the general population of Gotham understood better than most that they were all in the same rotting boat. And if that boat was sinking, and lord knew it was sinking, they'd teach each other to swim.
And Selina? She knew how to swim.
Her bike roared down the road as the city began to wake up.
On a rooftop, overlooking the streets, the Batman smiled.
#dc#batman#the batman 2022#batfam reverse big bang 2023#batfam big bang#selina kyle#bruce wayne#fic#things i wrote
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