#he would never wish that of pear but like. you get me
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but i watch your eyes as she walks by
what a sight for sore eyes
brighter than the blue sky
she's got you mesmerized
while i die
#be my favorite#pisaengkawi#gawin caskey#bemyfavoriteedit#pisaeng x kawi#fluke gawin caskey#bmf#fluke gawin#kawi x pisaeng#be my favorite the series#thaibledit#thaidramaedit#thai drama#thai bl#thdrama#thdramas#dramas#he's always heather by conan gray but here is where it really hits the most#how could i hate herrr she's such an angellllll (but then again kinda wish she were dead)#he would never wish that of pear but like. you get me#*
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I keep thinking about Pierre Gasly and a shy reader who likes to read and paint. While he's the complete opposite of a party boy
Opposites Attract // Pierre Gasly
Four times your friends thought your relationship was doomed to fail and one time they finally understood otherwise.
One
A group of sweaty men made their way out of the grinding crowd on the dance floor and, with a lack of grace lending itself to plenty of drinks and the leftover adrenaline of a Grand Prix, shakily made their way up the stairs to the VIP area.
Among them, sprawled lazily in the extended booth they now occupied, a certain Monégasque turns to his best friend like a gossiping school girl, “that blonde was totally into you.”
The French best friend in question raises an eyebrow, “well I totally wasn’t into her.”
“Who are you and what did you do with Pierre?”
“I’m still me, Charles.”
“Could’ve fooled me. Up until a few months ago you would’ve never turned down someone as ehm well endowed as her.”
Pierre rolls his eyes, “up until a few months ago I wasn’t in a loving relationship.”
“A loving relationship in which your girlfriend stays in your hotel room while you party all night long?”
“What does it matter? Y/N gets anxious and this isn’t really her scene. She knows I would never do anything to hurt her or our relationship and she trusts me.”
“She should be here supporting you.”
“She does support me. Tirelessly. And I do the same in return by making sure she’s not forced into situations that make her uncomfortable.”
When they return to their hotel in the early hours of the morning, fairing none too well after a night of endless partying, Charles can’t help but peak into the suite that Pierre and you were sharing after Pierre was too drunk to properly shut the door.
You were still up despite the ridiculously late hour and reading a lengthy book using the warm light of a lamp on your nightstand.
Charles watches through the crack as you carefully mark your place in the novel and get out of bed to greet your inebriated boyfriend.
“Hi, Pear.”
Pierre leans in to give you a messy kiss, missing your lips almost entirely, “hello, mon coeur. I missed you.”
“I missed you too, love. There’s some painkillers and water by your toothbrush. And I put your boxers by the clean towels for after you shower quickly.”
“I need help.”
“Help with what?”
“Help me shower,” Pierre whines softly, “pleeeeeaaaasssseee.”
“Okay, you big baby. Let’s get you washed.”
Charles hurriedly shut the door when Pierre went to drop his pants.
Two
You paced up and down the gallery, hands linked in front of you to stop their shaking … mostly. It was your first public art exhibition and the tremendous milestone meant stepping far outside your comfort zone and into a social setting to show off your hard work.
Your eyes ran over the paintings carefully hanging on the walls for the hundredth time. They were perfect. The result of pouring your entire soul into the images that flowed from your hands and onto the canvas. Everything would be perfect. Almost everything, that is.
“How sucky that your boyfriend couldn’t be here for you.”
You turn around to face a classmate and friend from art school, “it’s not his fault. He has a job to do.”
Your boyfriend of nearly a year was going to have to miss the exhibition not matter how much you knew he wished he could be here to support you. But Formula 1 waits for no one and he was stuck on the other side of the world among the chaos that came with a race weekend.
“I’m just saying,” she throws her hands up defensively, “what about his job as your boyfriend?”
“Pierre does that daily, thank you for your concern. His attention to me whenever he isn’t actively working more than makes up for the time he dedicates to racing.”
You move to turn back around but stop and about-face, “and his dedication and passion to that part of his life are part of the reason I love him.” Then you finally spin on your heel and go back to surveying your work for any imperfections.
You were broken out of your thoughts as the curator lightly tapped your shoulder, having been ignored when she quietly called your name while you were lost in your own head.
“Miss Y/N, there’s a delivery for you. Shall I tell them to bring it in?”
A delivery? You were fairly certain you didn’t order anything though with how anxious you were as the exhibition approached, maybe you did and just forgot about it.
“Of course! So sorry. They can put it down wherever there’s space.”
You watch in shock as courier after courier after courier after courier filed their way into the gallery and places overflowing vases of every flower under the sun on the floor before going back outside and returning with even more bouquets.
When you can barely see the tile floors and the gallery looks more like a botanical garden than a low-key space to showcase art, one of the couriers approaches you and hands you a card.
I wish I could be there celebrating your achievements with you. I am so incredibly proud of you and all that you’ve managed to do. I will be carrying a little bit of you with me when I race tonight.
Love you always,
PG
You can’t stop the tears that threaten to overflow when you spot the small photo of a print of your favorite painting tucked carefully into his helmet that was taped to the card.
Your classmate makes her way into the atrium again, “Five minutes till showtime! Oh my god? Who robbed a florist.”
“No robbing,” you laugh, “just Pierre being Pierre.”
Three
Pierre excitedly opens the door to welcome his friends from around the grid into his Milan apartment for their annual visit after the Italian Grand Prix.
“Hey, guys! Come in. Y/N just went to the market to quickly get some fresh fruit.”
The group of drivers files into the foyer and stop just short of smacking into each other as they stop and take in the apartment around them.
When Pierre bought the apartment a few years ago, he immediately hired a top interior designer to take care of all the decorating. Since then, the place he called home was sleek and modern and even whiter than his AlphaTauri race suit. Nothing like the apartment his friends were currently staring at with open mouths.
This apartment was a controlled chaos of colors that should not have gone together but somehow did. The walls were lined with paintings and photographs and little hanging plants that the interior designer would have fainted at. The ceiling of the entry way had a rather impressive recreation of the Sistine Chapel ceiling … with cats instead of humans.
“This is … wow.”
“I know! Isn’t it amazing? Y/N did it all herself after she finally moved in,” Pierre gushed.
“It’s definitely unique.”
“It just feels so much more like home, you know? It took a while for her to finally believe me when I told her I wanted her to redecorate but now we both love spending time here whenever we can.”
The boys exchange wide-eyed glances as Pierre rambles on and on about all of the changes that you made. What happened to the luxurious party boy who barely remembered the names of the women that graced his bed? Since when did Pierre Gasly spend five minutes describing how you painstakingly crocheted a throw blanket to perfectly match your new couch? The mark you made on him was becoming just as clear as the mark you made on his your home.
Four
It was cruel, really. With Pierre’s home Grand Prix being left off the schedule, you had promised to join him in Austin instead. Art school was relatively flexible and you didn’t anticipate any issues taking a week off to fly to Texas.
Until a teacher suddenly announced a project that had to be completed in class during the week you were meant to be at the United States Grand Prix.
You tried to hide a sniffle as you explain that you won’t be able to support him in person to Pierre over the phone during your lunch break. You stare at your salad, pushing the greens around as any appetite escaped you.
“It’s not worth your tears, mon coeur,” Pierre’s soothing accent cracks through your speaker. “Do not even worry about it. I promise that I will take care of everything.”
You see your classmate drop into the seat next to you and wave as you finish your conversation with Pierre.
“Hi! What’s-”
“Were you seriously planning to miss a week of school to go on vacation with your boyfriend?”
“It’s not exactly a vacation.”
Your friend rolls his eyes, “Semantics. You were going to fly halfway across the world and miss a week’s worth of classes for him. He’s been a bad influence on you. You would have never dreamed about skipping even a day of class before you got together with him.”
“Being in a relationship has made me reevaluate my priorities,” you explain. “Don’t get me wrong — I love art and school is important but nothing beats being there for the people you love.”
“Whatever,” he sighs, “no use talking about it now. There’s no way you’re getting out of doing the project to go on your trip. Might as well cancel your tickets now.”
“Pierre said he’ll take care of the class so I’m not giving up hope yet.”
“Right … the second you get excused from the project is the second that pigs fly.”
You didn’t know which of you was more shocked when your boyfriend walked into the room like he owned it halfway through class the next day. He beelined towards your teacher with a purpose and you tore your attention away from the unfinished painting in front of you to watch as they talked. You can’t make out what they’re saying but see Pierre gesturing towards you and then slipping an envelope into your teacher’s hands when he gets a nod. They shake hands and Pierre makes his way to you.
He pecks your lips as your classmates’ eyes all turn to you, “Done. You’ll have an extra week to finish the project under supervision when you get back from America.”
“No way! How?”
“All it took was two paddock passes to Imola next season.”
“You’re actually the best, Pear. I love you so much.”
“Not more than I love you.” He turned to leave, “I’ll pick you up for dinner later?”
“Can’t wait, love.”
As the class dispersed an hour later, you couldn’t help bumping into your friend, “guess pigs learned to fly, huh?”
+ One
It wasn’t until the following season that his friends finally realized that you and Pierre were meant to be. You flew out to Belgium with him, knowing that Spa was especially hard for him emotionally and wanting to be there for your boyfriend. The morning of race day, you joined Pierre and the rest of the grid as they went to pay respects to Anthoine Hubert. You watched as various drivers left flowers and cards and stepped forward after they were done.
“I hope you don’t mind. I know that I never met Anthoine but I feel like I know him through all the stories Pierre tells and wanted to leave something to honor him too,” you pull a canvas out of your tote and kneel down to place it against the fence.
There’s silence as the men around you take in the portrait of a smiling Anthoine that you left among the flowers and wreaths.
Pierre pulls you in for a hug and you hold him tight as you feel your shoulder grow wet from his tears, “thank you, mon coeur. You have no idea how much this means to me.”
Pierre’s friends take in the sight of the two of you lost in your embrace. Maybe you’re not who they imagined Pierre would end up with but turns out that you’re exactly what he needs.
#f1#f1 fanfic#f1 fic#f1 imagine#f1 rpf#f1 fanfiction#f1blr#f1 blurb#f1 x reader#f1 x you#formula 1#formula one#pierre gasly#pg10#pierre gasly imagine#pierre gasly x you#pierre gasly x reader#pierre gasly blurb#pierre gasly fic#pierre gasly fanfic#pierre gasly fluff#alpha tauri#scuderia alphatauri
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Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Ten (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)
Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running?
Genre: a LOT of angst, (some) smut, best friends to… lovers?
Warnings: see collated series warnings, here.
Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list).
Author’s note: Hope you like this next instalment! It’s a long one, and it’s a flashback, so it feels like a HUGE RISK to shove this in so far into the story. However, this memory of Santiago’s and reader’s is SO vivid in my mind I feel I could basically use it as a patronus charm. Therefore, if you’re at all invested in these two by now, I do feel like the payoff is worth it, and that it will set you up PERFECTLY for the next, concluding chapter! (Also: ooh, intrigue, as we get to see how they were with each other back in their youth, you know?). Anyway, as always, I would be super grateful for any comments / reblogs / asks you may wish to send my way. ILY :-*
P.s. there’s a timeline goof as a song mentioned in this, although recorded in ‘88, was not released until 2015. But we’re just gonna look past that, okay? 😝 In this world it was released early.
AND I have nothing against Philadelphia!
Word count: 16.6k for this part. (SORRY!)
Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)
Many years earlier
Santiago is tired. Ready to crawl into the cocoon of his bed and draw the covers over his head, refusing to surface again until he’s dragged feet first outta there. Unfortunately for him though, sleep is not on the cards.
Instead, he has a vitally important mission to attend to. And, in the face of a mission, this particular soldier never settles for anything less than completion. That doctrine is especially true - he has proven time and again - when it comes to taking care of you.
Tonight, Santiago is tasked with making your birthday a memorable one; or, as memorable as he can muster with the $40 he currently has to his name.
“Civilian aircraft, man. Where’s a goddamn helo when you need one?” you fruitlessly complain as he nods along in sympathy.
Evidently, sleep is the last thing on your mind. You’d been looking forward to cutting loose for weeks, with this night touted as “the birthday to end all birthdays”. Serendipitously, this was the first time your birthday had coincided with a period of leave since you signed up to serve and, thwarting all that, your connecting flight was grounded unexpectedly.
Santiago feels crushed - on your behalf - that the plans have gone so pear-shaped.
“One o’ these days, getting shot for the Motherland will gain me some fucking privileges, huh?”
Santiago flinches at that particular addition. He doesn’t like to think about that day. That day’d had him waking up in frequent cold sweats going on a year now. He’d put himself on the line countless times - no problem- but almost losing you had been decidedly different. Had been the single most terrifying moment of his career (and his life) to date, all told. Which sure was saying something considering the hairy situations he routinely found himself in.
Graciously, your present circumstances are considerably less dire. You’ve still been griping, of course. And, your complaints have not succeeded in changing a damn thing. It is now abundantly clear - if it wasn’t already - that the two of you are stranded for the night. So, here you are, holed up in a dingy and characterless airport motel in Philadelphia.
It beats enemy fire, for sure… but even so, Santiago is acutely aware of how much you’ve been looking forward to this. To the rare chance to catch-up with your far flung squad mates, scattered every which way across the globe since graduating basic. He knows too, that the anticipation of this reunion had acted as your glue - had held you together - through what had been a particularly brutal deployment.
“I haven’t seen Miller in months, man. I need to give that bastard some grief soon or I’m going to lose my damn mind.”
“We can call that pendejo tomorrow,” Santiago soothes, popping a stick of gum and beginning to chew obnoxiously. “Hey. We can even pool our insults, huh? Really get him going.”
You raise your palms, pressing the heels of your hands into your eye sockets. “Shit. I just miss the fucker, Santiago.” For the first time tonight he hears your voice break, your stoicism cracking apart and revealing your soft middle.
“I know. I know you do, sweetie.”
Santiago knows how crushed you are. And so, for whatever it’s worth, the man resolves to show you the best night he possibly can, all circumstances considered.
“Come on,” he encourages, kneeling before you as your lower lip quivers. He plants a hand on your thigh and jostles your leg gently. Meanwhile, you sit slumped on the long edge of the lumpy motel bed, beginning to feel rather more sorry for yourself. “You and me, baby. I’ll make this night special, I swear. Just give me a chance, huh?”
“How?” you sound, throwing your palms up and gesturing to your dismal surroundings. “This place is barely even a step-up from the barracks.” You eye a particularly suspect stain on the carpet with disdain. “Actually, I think it might even be a step down.”
Santiago’s face crumples obediently in a measured display of sympathy, but honestly, his first instinct is to chuckle. You look so forlorn in this moment, Santiago has to consciously suppress his smile. You are the most stubborn, ferocious, determined person he’s ever met. You are fucking tough. Hell, he’s seen Staff Sergeants buckle in a crisis before you’ve even come close to breaking - and yet here you are. Almost in tears because you can’t make your birthday party. It’s all a little incongruous to him that out of everything, this would be the thing to take you down.
At the same time though, of course. He understands it perfectly.
Santiago has understood for a long time now that you possess a (well-concealed) softer side. Knows it better than most others do, in fact. As you’ve gradually allowed him to sneak past your militia-guarded perimeter -only a soldier of his calibre capable of making it, he’d wager - he’s begun to catch more and more frequent glimpses of the achingly soft heart you guard within. If your tough exterior had initially magnetised him to you, it was your soft heart which ensured he’d stuck around.
Solemnly then, he pats your thigh in a consolatory gesture. Of course, Santiago gets it. He knows it isn’t the presents or the attention or fuss which you’ll miss tonight - though they would have gone over well too, he’s sure. He knows that it is your brothers (in arms, if not blood) that you are feeling the loss of. The squad mates you love dearly, and to whom you are loyal with a tenacity Santiago has rarely witnessed. A loyalty he too feels blessed -strictly in the lapsed Catholic sense - to be on the receiving end of.
Valiantly fighting back glassy tears, you pop your lower lip in a display of petulance as he rubs reassuring circles into your knee. “Philly sucks ass.”
This time, he can’t quite quash his smile all the way.
“Philly sucks ass, huh?” he repeats, buying himself time to think.
Santiago isn’t sure whether you know that for a fact. He isn’t even sure you’ve ever been to Philly before to assess how much ass it does or does not suck. But, he does know that, irregardless of facts, you seem altogether determined to wallow in your self-pity.
Santiago has noticed this about you. How you always developed an inalienable picture in your head of how you hope things will end up. It’s inspirational at times - your ability to visualise victory, for example, even in the most dire of circumstances, has held missions together. Has held him together. At other times though, it only set you up for disappointment. How could it not, when, through no fault of your own, you cannot reliably manifest the various futures you set your heart on.
It’s not as though you ever ask for a lot; but sometimes, in your profession, even asking for a little is asking far too much.
Still, it is brave, Santiago thinks, to hope for things. For his part, he has learned the hard way not to hope for anything much.
Your shoulders sag in time with his as he exhales a breath and, though your display is dejected, Santiago gathers a soft smile. You are stubborn, that’s for sure, but in him you’ve met your match - or so he likes to think. Santiago is perhaps the only person who could reasonably claim the title of being twice as stubborn as you are, and (while he realises deep down he probably shouldn’t wear that as a badge of honour) he has often pushed his theory to its limit. And so, stubbornly, refusing to give up, Santiago rises to standing. He fishes around in his jeans pocket, yanks out a fistful of dimes and small bills, and brandishes them victoriously.
He waves them enticingly in front of your face then, but you forlornly swat them -and him- away. However, he knows from the dull, reluctant spark in your eyes when he makes his pitch that he is finally on to something. “I saw some peanut butter cups in the hallway vending machine,” he sing-songs, with a hopeful raise of his eyebrows. He knows fine well they’re your favourite, and he can’t believe he’d forgotten his secret weapon: chocolate. “We can clean them out, take a cab, find some shitty ass dive bar, and have ourselves a sweet ol’ time. Whaddya say?”
Nothing else had worked, and so Santiago is eminently thankful when a smile finally twitches your mouth. Honestly, he’d been about one attempt away from offering to eat you out all night - and he hadn’t been sure whether that would’ve made you happy, or would’ve resulted in you verbally lambasting him.
On balance, he figured it was probably best that he didn’t risk either kind of tongue-wagging.
“Fine,” you concede whilst swallowing a mischievous grin, not at all eager to let on that Santiago has finally cracked you. “But don’t you be expecting to muscle in on my Reese’s, understood?”
Santiago chuckles warmly, slipping into Spanish. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Birthday Princess.”
You snort at your newly bestowed title, playfully adjusting an invisible crown on your head, and you extend your palm towards his to shake on it. The gesture, as Santiago’s palm over-enthusiastically clasps yours, causes dimes and bills to scatter chaotically to the floor. A shit-eating grin etches itself across his face and meanwhile, your boisterous laugh rings out through the tight space. “Shit, Pope. Don’t drop it on this grim-ass fucking carpet.”
“It’s been worse places, trust me.”
“Yeah. Your fucking pocket?”
“No shithead, I won it from Catfish.”
“And you don’t know where the hell he’s been?”
“The opposite. I shared a bunk with that hijo de puta, I know exactly where he’s been.”
With easy laughter eddying between you now, you both crouch, carefully gathering up the spoils of the latest Pope/Catfish wager to change hands.
“I really need to meet that guy.”
“Sweetie, you’ve met him.”
Your hand brushes Santiago’s as you transfer him a mess of coins, sending a trail of goosebumps shivering up his arm. It always surprises him how soft you feel to the touch, accustomed as he has become to his own calloused hands - and to those of even rougher men than him.
“Garcia. I swear to you I’ve never clapped eyes on the bastard.”
“You just don’t remember him.”
“Shit. Well maybe he’s not very fucking memorable. Jog my memory. What did we talk about?”
His shit-eating grin is back. “I dunno. But I bet you talked for the both of you.”
“Hey!” you protest, batting Santiago lightly -more or less- in the upper arm.
“I just mean he’s quiet. Takes a while to warm up, that’s all. But he’s a good guy. You’ll like him, I promise.”
“Okay.” You shove the remaining dime into Santiago’s palm.
“Okay?”
“He’s clearly special to you, so he’s special to me too. Introduce me to him. Again.”
Santiago smiles at you, gentle crinkles forming around his eyes. He’s already told Frankie so much about you, and he really thinks the two of you will get on. “Deal.” You both stand, and Santiago once again extends his cash-filled hand towards you.
With a cheeky grin you chide him, not eager for a repeat calamity, but your tone is fond. “Don’t you dare shake on it, idiota.”
Your smile digresses to your eyes. You extend your palm to pat him on his stubbled cheek - in a gesture weighing heavily with affection. Your lips animate, and Santiago wonders whether something sentimental might actually come to the fore.
You whisper, low. “You have thirty seconds to get me my peanut butter cups.”
He chortles and, for the first time (perhaps since imagining his head between your legs), Santiago is eminently excited to see where the night will lead him.
Safe to say, he might be dog-tired… but he finally feels like staying awake.
***
Despite your very vocal distaste for the music, and the clientele, and…well, just about everything in the first dive bar you and Santiago stumble across, the combination of cheap beers and even cheaper shots has succeeded in getting you efficiently merry. And, despite your earlier reticence, you now seem plenty eager to continue the party.
Considering he could only afford cab fare from the motel to a dead neighbourhood on the outskirts of the city, it wasn’t going too badly, he thought. Though, Santiago had hastily steered you outta the first joint when a group of creeps had started leching on you. He knows you can handle yourself and he wouldda been happy to back you; but tonight especially, conflict is the last thing he wants for you. He figures you’ve had more than enough of that to last a lifetime. That you finally deserve a little peace. So, instead, he links your arm in his to keep your tipsy ass steady as he steers you down the main drag, desperately searching his mind - and scanning the unfamiliar streets - for what to do next.
His mission, as it stands, is to satiate your threefold desire - for drinks, dancing, and good music. Tricky, given that he is already down to $10 dollars, give or take - and he’ll need that for the cab ride back to the crummy motel.
Truth is, as he ambles with you for a few blocks, he is running out of ideas for how to show you a good time. What’s more, ever since he first entertained the idea, in his desperation, all his dumb ass can come up with is to offer to eat you out until morning. It’s pretty much becoming an intrusive thought at this point and, as the sordid image of you spread out for him further invades his mind, he quickly tries to blink it away.
He doesn’t want to be that guy. You receive more than enough unwarranted attention as it is. And besides, Santiago would never want you to misinterpret that the reason he hangs around is to -eventually- get in your pants.
You are so much more than that to him. Sometimes, he even has to keep his distance, so that in moments of weakness he doesn’t forget it.
You’d held him at arms length for a while there too.
Soldiers; not friends.
He hadn’t won you over, he knew, because of his sparkling wit and charm. You’d been drawn to him because he was competent. Surprisingly level-headed for someone so baby-faced. You’d wanted people you could work with. People you could trust to get the job done; because you had to trust them with your life.
The two of you have some undeniable chemistry, that’s for sure. At least, on his end, he’d felt something fierce and magnetic right out of the gate. Even so, from the outset, and even as your friendship had deepened, the two of you had seemed to quickly forge a tacit agreement.
Friends; not lovers.
You had made the assessment quickly, jointly, unconsciously. After all, under the rather intense circumstances in which you’d met? You’d each needed a friend - a genuine friend - far more than you’d needed a lay. For you especially, as he understood it, the former had been far more difficult to secure than the latter, especially as a woman in a highly-charged cesspit of toxic masculinity. And for him? Well, as talented as Santiago is at gaining connections, he doesn’t find all too many people he is willing to go deep with. To trust - and he trusts you with his life.
When he’d found you then, he’d grabbed firmly on to you, and had resolved that nothing would get in the way of the friendship you’d forged. Not even - or perhaps especially not - his own… urges.
Still. It’s not like he’s never thought about it. Not like you’ve never gotten him a tad… flustered. Indeed, as the rhythm of your steps marching in time beside him lulls him into calmness, feeling safe, his mind wanders in precisely that direction.
So what though? He’s only human, right? Prone to fantasising; like he is now, he supposes, as he thinks vaguely about licking and kissing down your enticing, bare expanse of stomach. About popping the button on those low slung jeans. Shimmying them down over your hips just enough to sink his mouth over the mound of you and suck.
Fuck. Focus, pendejo. You need something.
He swallows then, feeling guilty for being such a horndog, and he turns to you. You seem to be perfectly content. To be enjoying the hit of fresh air, the apples of your cheeks sheened, with a subtle glow, from the exertion of your dance moves back in the dive bar. And honestly? Looking at you? As guilty as he feels for thinking about you like that, Santiago can’t muster a single better idea of what to do with you.
He pushes it down, of course. Chalks it up to being just a tad pent-up following a seemingly endless deployment. That’s all it is, right? His dick is just looking for a little relief, and you are the closest, attractive body capable of providing him a warm welcome?
Sure, he rationalises. That’s all it is. He can find a girl one night soon and take her home, like he’s done plenty of times before to work out his urges. Except for the fact that seeing you out of those (helpfully) modest fatigues is reminding him you are exactly his type.
“You’ve gone quiet, Pope,” you frown as he -no doubt- looks at you dopily. “What are you plotting?”
With your question, Santiago tears himself violently from his thoughts as you interrupt their increasingly feral trajectory. Still, in scrambling for a deflection, all he is able to land on is something else deep and wet. “The Mariana Trench,” he fumbles.
Hell. Maybe he isn’t quite as smart as he gives himself credit for. Or, maybe all the blood is simply rushing to his crotch instead of his brain - for some reason.
Even so. He urges himself to get his mind out of the gutter and to focus up. You deserve so much more than bearing the brunt of his accumulated sexual frustrations. So. Much. More.
You laugh at his response though, oblivious as you are to his inner monologue, even linking your arm into his more tightly - as though he isn’t a huge perv. Your bright, infectious, beer-addled laugh bounces off of the surrounding asphalt and concrete. And, whilst it ricochets off of everything else, it sinks into him, mixing just a little more of you into his generic, rapidly dissolving fantasy. It offers a luminous gilding around the edges of his hazy desire, stirring in a vivid and more golden want than he has strength in this moment to acknowledge - never mind name.
“Okay, weirdo. Sure. You’re thinking about the butt crack of the ocean? Miller been feeding you National Geographic documentaries again? You guys do know pay-per-view exists, right?”
“Fine. You got me,” he confesses, your paces slowing as you gradually halt by the crosswalk, the two of you realising you have no particular destination in mind. “That was bullshit. I was actually thinking about what the hell I’m gonna do with you next.”
Well… That isn’t a lie. Not exactly.
Santiago looks you up and down where you stand, out of habit more than anything - a result of that now familiar “buddy up” system soldiers make use of to check each other for injuries. Sometimes, with the adrenaline and the shock, you don’t even know you’re bleeding out. This time, thankfully, the only ailment Santiago notices is the goose flesh prickling your skin, and he wishes that he had a jacket to offer you to keep you warm.
“Oh?” You turn your body in to face him. Sway just a tad, eyes a little bleary, and Santiago instinctually plants his hands around your waist to keep you stable, touching on the smooth, bare skin where your ratty old band tee fails to meet your waistband - by approximately the width of four thick fingers. You shiver even though his touch must be warm. “Okay. Well what are you going to do with me, Santiago?”
You blink at him then, your eyes wide and - dare he say - hopeful, one eyebrow arcing in idle curiosity.
You are typically the decisive one. You are always clear on what you want. Tonight, however, it is evident that you are counting on him to lead you somewhere.
Even though he doubts his ability to take the lead, rather fortuitously, Santiago does (miraculously) manage to stumble upon one single idea outside of the realm of cunnilingus… “Hey, come here,” he coaxes, taking your hands in his. “Close your eyes.” You oblige him, folding your grip around him, firm and sure. His heart swells a little at the instant, implicit trust you exhibit - no hesitation. “Do you hear that?”
Santiago’s eyes remain open, observing you as your eyes blink clumsily shut. You slide your soft hands up his forearms, bracing yourself with a gentle “woah”, no doubt as the closing of your eyes makes your alcohol-saturated world sway and swirl just a little more intensely. “Listen, cariño,” he scolds good-naturedly, cupping his palms at your elbows. “Do you hear it?”
He can’t help but smile as your face scrunches in adorable contemplation. Then, he can’t help smiling even wider, as you begin to tap his arms and jump excitedly up and down on the spot. You hear it too then. The distant thud of music bouncing off of the tall buildings.
“Music!” you exclaim excitedly, opening your eyes and grinning at him, still bouncing on the spot like an excited kid.
The full beam of your unfiltered smile knocks him for six for second. It has been a while, honestly, since he’s seen it glow that bright. Turned all the way up. You’d gone through some shit on this deployment. Blood, horror, pain; rinse and repeat. Some of your spark had understandably dulled, and honestly, he had worried -in part, a little selfishly- that it might never come back to its full strength.
Boy. He’s glad to be proven wrong.
Santiago had quickly come to learn that you possess a singular combination of character traits - and not only the magical ability to piss him off more than anyone else could. No, in fact, he’d learned quickly that you possess a singular kind of zest for life. One which he’d feared was too pure to survive long in the dark. Honestly, he’d believed your optimism and your joy was naive at first. Something to be knocked out of you in boot camp. But he was wrong so far. At every turn you endure. At every turn, you shine. As he feels increasingly bogged down, saturated with inky, oily shadows, you are bright. His guiding light, always calling him home from the edge of the dark, shadow-coiled path he skirts.
“Do we follow it?” you ask excitedly, the glint of adventure in your bright eyes, and in that moment he could swear he’d follow you anywhere.
“Yeah. Of course we follow it. It’s our goddamn duty to follow it.” Santiago stomps his boot and waves his arm in a sloppy military salute - the kind that would earn him fifty push-ups back at base. You follow suit, even more sloppy, but entirely resolute in your faux seriousness.
“Tonight, I swear my oath and pledge my allegiance to music, so help me God.”
Santiago stomps emphatically again, for effect - an overblown, cheesy action-movie-style salute, his strong jaw set in an overly caricatured display. You beam again, a face-splitting grin, and he…
…realises he is having fun.
In this moment, you are giddy. You are bright. Full of life, and Santiago briefly wonders if this is how things could be. If it could be like this all the time if only you could get out. If you could leave the military behind. God. You are the last person he wants to lose from his side, but a knot twists in his stomach at the thought you should get out while you still can. Before it drags you down like it is him. Before he drags you down with him, since you’ve seemingly tied your fates to his with red bloodied ribbons, wound between your bones and his.
He doesn’t have much time to consider those things though. To let the blood seep into the edges like it always does; because you start running. You take Santiago’s hand in yours and run towards the distant thud of noise, leading him behind you and laughing and whooping as you do. Making a grey night in a grey part of town feel vibrant. Making him feel vibrant by association. He realises only then how numb he’s felt lately. How your buoyant smile had been the only thing to feed his own these past months.
You are so much more than a throwaway fantasy to him.
You truly are the friend he’s needed so desperately, and feels so, so lucky to have found.
He runs with you, and he hopes, silently, selfishly, somewhere in the pit of him, that your paths never wind in different directions.
He��ll follow you anywhere.
***
After a few, giddy, chaotic minutes of tracing the ricocheting sounds, you find yourselves in the lobby of a seedy hotel, breaths sawing in and out of your lungs and mirthful, intermittent giggles spilling out of you.
“I’m on the guest list!” you insist with a hiccough, trying your utmost to blag your way into the wedding party contained beyond the double doors; the established source of the music.
Your assertion is much to the chagrin of the teenaged, stoner-looking kid on the front desk, who is clearly milking his new-found authority for all it’s worth.
“Sure, lady. Then what’s your name?”
Santiago looks at you expectantly, his arm slung casually around your shoulders, his chest already shaking and nose scrunching with a mildly tipsy, sleep-deprived concoction of mischief.
“The name’s Trench,” you deadpan, and the poor fellow actually begins to skim his index finger down the alphabetised list. “Mariana Trench.”
Santiago eyeballs you. Honestly, half of him is awed by your balls, even as the other half is despairing of your chosen (and completely unnecessary) alias. Still, he sees the funny side, of course, and has to swallow a hearty laugh by faux coughing into his fist.
There are not many factors helping your case here; especially the fact your body is already unconsciously bopping along to the music. Santiago has to physically encourage you back to your spot with his arm around your middle, and, as the rhythm continually beckons you forth, he hastily tucks you into his side in a fruitless attempt to subdue you.
By the time Santiago’s gaze flicks back to the kid at the desk, he’s folded his arms over his chest like a stern math teacher, clearly enjoying his upper hand. “Dude,” the kid probes sceptically, perhaps sensing that Santiago is the more sensible (or at least more sober) of the two of you. “What are the names of the bride and groom?”
“Nicole and Dio,” Santiago fires off smugly, causing you to first gasp and - second - to gawk at him like a fish (which is funny, because for all you know he’s made those up too).
“How did you know that?” you hiss-whisper, thinking you are being oh so subtle, and Santiago elbows you discreetly in the ribs for your trouble. This time though, he is unable to stifle his laughter entirely, a throaty chuckle shaking out of him, and the crinkles around his eyes rehearsing deeper future furrows.
Meanwhile, whilst the kid at the desk continues to eye him sceptically, he cannot refute Santiago’s knowledge. The soldier silently praises his undeniable powers of observation - and the fact the kid seems to have entirely forgotten about the huge fuck-off sign standing in the entrance lobby.
“Yeah. Still no.” This kid is a tough nut.
“Shit,” you plead. “Well can I at least use the restroom?”
“I guess that’s fine,” the kid concedes with an eye roll, gesturing towards the left hand side of the lobby.
You saunter off, beelining towards the door with such ferocity that you whack your hip off of the doorframe on the way in there.
Santiago winces in time with your “ouch!”, but as you throw your arms in the air, triumphantly insisting you are fine, he turns his attention back to his mission; to get you whatever you want for your birthday.
Sporting the friendliest smile he can muster in the full knowledge this kid behind the desk hates him already, Santiago mosies up to the counter.
“Come on, buddy. Hook us up,” he reasons. “It’s a Tuesday night and everywhere else is closed by now.”
“Dude, your attempts to get laid are not my issue.”
“No. No, it’s… She’s my friend. It’s her birthday and-”
“-Then take her to a fucking Chilli’s, bro. Still not my problem.”
Santiago huffs, still trying to keep his face neutral. Non-threatening. He needs to step things up before you return from the restroom.
“Listen, buddy.” The kid scowls at him then as if to confirm - I’m emphatically not your buddy. “Do you know what it’s like to be shot in service of your country?”
“What?!”
He nods behind him, in your general direction, his eyebrows pumping up towards his hairline (and reaching for a hasty explanation before the kid presses the under-desk alarm button). “Because she does.” Santiago rests his folded arms up on the counter. Leaning-in. Going all out with the eye contact. “When I tell you she’s had a shitty time of it? Lying on the ground, bleeding out. So, look, man. I just want to give her a good time tonight, alright? Would you please help me out, man? She’s fucking earned this.”
A gulp trails down the kid’s neck, and he tucks his long, straight blonde hair behind his ears. “You’re intense, bro. Anyone ever told you that?”
Santiago opens his mouth again, wishing to further embellish his case; but before he can do so the kid caves, waving his palms in total surrender. “Fuck, man. Do what you want, but for the love of God, would you just stop talking to me?”
“Great. Thank you. I mean it.”
“Yep. Whatever. Don’t get paid enough for this shit, bro.”
Santiago hears the door swing behind him, and joins you just in time to lead you further into the building, pleased that he is able to report victory. He’s almost forgotten about the front desk already - until the kid calls after him, growing bolder the further you two retreat, apparently. “This is why I’m a pacifist, dude! You might wanna think about it.”
“Sure thing,” he calls back over his shoulder. “I’ll give it some consideration.”
Then, Santiago gently ushers you into the corridor leading towards the party, taking a moment to celebrate his “smooth-talking”. Before he can even think about bragging though, you throw your arms up in the air in a tada gesture and exclaim “you are welcome!”. He doesn’t have the heart to tell you you’d had no part in getting past the gate, and so instead, he opts to finally vent his quashed laughter. The fact you’d name-dropped Mariana Trench, specifically, supplies a giggle hearty enough that it makes his abs ache.
“Oh. By the way. How do I look?” you question, when the two of you are just shy of making an entrance to the main hall.
Santiago turns to you and looks you up and down. Notices the fresh application of smeared red over your plush mouth. Surveys your jeans and tee with approval, as though you are outfitted in a gown. “Good, chica.”
“Good!” You step forward then, towards him, and lay your palms flat on his upper chest. “Now. You know what I wanna do?” For a split second, with your proximity, and the husky thrall of your voice, Santiago finds himself imagining what you might want to do to him - if he should be so lucky. “I wanna dance. Will you dance with meeee, Santiaaaaggooo?”
Santiago feels a lump lodge itself in his throat. Tries hard to forget that… well… red lipstick and dancing? They are - more often than not - your highly decipherable code for being horny. Shit - he wonders if you are as pent up as he is.
“You got it!” he musters, getting himself quickly in check. Christ, he needs to prioritise getting laid - just as soon as he is no longer wholly dedicated to your birthday.
“Yay!”
You lead him by the hand and, once again, Santiago does not complain. Then, swinging open one of two double doors, plastered with unsightly fire regulations, you enter the fray.
The doors open on a busy room, bathed in beams of chaotic coloured light. In reality, the interior is drab. A sad, grey, carpeted room. A few busted ceiling tiles up top. The circular event tables are flanked by a sorry stage at one side - fronted by a sticky, modest square of dance floor - and a small bar at the other. Finally, the far wall is edged with a rather depleted buffet, and intermittent bowls of greying macaroni. Whilst the room itself is nothing to write home about, however, the jubilation inside makes it feel positively wonderful.
Santiago feels only for a split second like he is intruding. Within moments, he is all wrapped-up in the buzz. Enveloped by it. The band’s amps are turned up far too loud. The dance floor is awash with couples gyrating on each other and groups of singles circling each other, looking for an in. Throngs of friends and family are grouped throughout the room, laughing and chatting, taking photos on disposable cameras and clinking glasses, and when the two of you enter, matching smiles plastered on your faces, no-one even bats an eye.
“We’re really doing this?” Santiago raises his voice above the tremor of the music. “Crashing a fucking wedding?”
“Relax! It’s not the worst thing you’ve ever done, Garcia. It’s not even against the Geneva Convention.”
“Jesus! I’m not a fucking war criminal!”
“Relax, Santiago,” you encourage, tone soothing and your hands massaging into his shoulders; and, finally, he lets himself. For once, he lets his guard down. So, as you travel deeper into the room, Santiago begins to move a little less like a soldier on patrol, and allows his gait to loosen up. Allows himself to approach the room not as a soldier on high alert, but simply as some guy with his buddy, looking for a good time. “Attaboy,” you encourage, seeing him visibly unclench - a rare thing. “We’re good, alright? Hey. I’ll even leave a pack of Reese’s on the table. That way, we even brought a gift.”
“And you’ll keep a low profile, right?”
“Of course!” You flash him a faux innocent grin, which he sees right through.
Yeah, figures, he thinks. Honestly, he isn’t sure you are capable of blending in - stealth ops aside, of course. But here? Without your camo and a distinct lack of a gilly suit? Baby, look at you, you’re gonna be noticed.
“Alright. We dance. Just keep it low key or-“
“-Sure, sure,” you dismiss, waving your hand through the air as though to erase his plea. “But first, tequilaaaa!”
Evidently, you are ignoring him completely, and yet the beaming smile on your face is so utterly worth it that Santiago could care less. “Eh. Whatever you say, Princesa.”
You wink at him. “Now you’re getting the idea.”
Santiago watches you skip gracelessly over to the bar, making zero attempt to blend into the crowd (unsurprising). You order up two shots, downing one instantly and handing the other to him with a jubilant, mildly devilish grin. At this stage, Santiago is deliberately a few drinks behind you, having wanted to remain sober enough to take care of you. So, he figures he has a little wiggle room remaining before he reaches the point of no return. Egged on by your encouraging nods, he tips it down the hatch.
“Cheers!” you exclaim, clumsily clinking your little plastic shot glass against his. The remains of the amber liquid still glisten on your mouth, lending an appealing shine to your red lips. As you mop the drips away with the back of your hand, you slightly smear the shade towards your cheek.
Before Santiago can rectify the situation for you though, you’ve once again taken his hand and trailed him behind you, clumsily weaving through the crowd as he interjects “sorry!” each time you bash - either your body or his - into someone else’s. Before long though, the two of you are safely tucked right in the midst of it all, adding to the messy, merry throng on the compact dance floor. The amateurish but jubilantly played rock covers from the band began to vibrate all the way through his chest as you position right next to the speakers.
As the vibrations tickle through him, bass inflating like a balloon in his rib cage, drowning out his thoughts and his heartbeat, you dance. With his thoughts silenced - or, rather, out-volumed- he slips into his body as if it is his own again. As if it belongs to him, and not just to some notion of God and country.
You, for your part, dance as if compelled to. As though, after living for so long with your body following orders, exercising control, being disciplined, staying in line, you can finally let it be free. Can finally let it express itself.
You move well, Santiago notes as he allows his own body to limber, freeing up his arms and his hips and feeling the buzz of the music and the alcohol thrum pleasantly through his body. It all feels somewhat alien to him now, his body stiff and lacking muscle memory for such imprecise, unplanned movements. You though? You move with abandon. With joy, like you never forgot how to feel it, belting the lyrics right from your chest. Jumping and waving your arms when the guitar solo drops.
It makes him deeply happy to see you like this. What’s more, amidst the dance floor of preened, deliberate women encircling your space, their movements seemingly contrived to be appealing, alluring, sexual, your reckless expression is far sexier to him. You feel freed, wild - and it almost feels dangerous to him. This clear absence of regiments and rules and barriers feels dangerous, even the barriers between your body and his disintegrating as you dance closer, the beat shaking you together like sand on a drum skin.
Indeed, your bodies are pushed ever closer and closer as the surprisingly heaving crowd compresses you tighter and tighter in the minimal, sticky-floored maneuver room. And so, after you’ve suffered one too many bumps and restrictions from stray shoulders and elbows, you finally give in to it, looping your arms around his neck and choosing to dance with him.
Instinctually, automatically, Santiago’s hands fall to your hips, gripping you there as your body sways and rolls in time to the music, the raw, dirty hard rock vocals moving through you and bedding down into your body.
At first, when your body presses up against his and the hot breath of your laughter fans over his neck, Santiago thinks about adjusting. About sliding his hands back up to your waist, where -perhaps- the gesture may seem less intimate. May allow for a little more room and a little less contact.
It isn’t as though the two of you are strangers to touching. You are both tactile people, and besides, you’re often in close quarters. You’ve slammed each other to the mat plenty of times. He’s had your sweaty, writhing body all over his. Your grunts of submission sounding in his ear. Huffs of exertion fanning against his neck. Thighs locked with his. His hips pinning you. But this? This is a little different. It isn’t precise, technical touch. It isn’t objective-driven. There are no clear rules, besides friends not lovers, and even that distinction is starting to feel a little blurry.
No, this kinda touch is something else. It is raw. It is instinctual; and that scares him, in truth.
However, it doesn’t scare him nearly enough to want to stop.
He does not move his hands from your rolling, swaying hips. Can’t bring himself to. Instead, he gives in to it. To the music. To the feeling. To you. And, when does, he finds himself surprised by how fluidly your bodies move together. Symbiotically. Like a team. Like you do in battle, sure. In the field. Like it is the most natural thing in the world; but this time, your combining is not at all driven by survival. It is driven by living, and Santiago could swear, in this moment, that he has never felt quite so alive.
The room is getting hot. The undulating crowd of bodies surrounding you is only adding to it. Exertion is glowing on your skin. He can feel it up against him, your sweat bleeding through your damp t-shirt where your breasts press into him. Can feel it beneath his fingers, tacky and slick, as he wraps his hands around that bare flash of skin at your midriff. God, you are smooth, and soft, and slick, and he is momentarily transfixed by a bead of sweat sinking down the centre of your chest, disappearing beneath the “v” of your shirt.
Someone else’s body briefly presses up against his in the crush and he cringes away from the feel of their slick skin… but you? Yours? You feel good to him. He doesn’t mind it.
That scares him too; but still, not enough to stop.
With a joyous, unfettered laugh you claim back some space, spinning Santiago underneath your arm, your dance moves growing increasingly outlandish. Of course, Santiago follows your lead. Always does. And, before long, the two of you can barely dance from laughing and can barely laugh from your insistence to keep dancing.
It feels good. Good to push your respective bodies to their limit on your own terms for once. To be with each other, side by side, in a scenario which could not be further from life or death; but that feels a thousand times more vital and central to being alive.
Seeing your smile strobe as the blue party lights slip and flash over the planes of your face, the beats and riffs pulsing through his body, Santiago feels giddy and he feels bright. With laughter bobbing in his throat and aching in his sides, he feels goddamn luminescent, and so he can’t help but wonder. Can’t help but wonder if this is how he would feel all the time. If he got out. If the two of you could just be people, instead of soldiers.
Santiago holds on to it. He holds on to you. To the feeling of freedom. Of pure, unfettered joy. Of this strange peace amidst the blurry, heavy noise.
He holds on to it while he can. He smiles with you until his face hurts. Laughs with you until his breath wanes. Dances with you longer than he should, song after song. Dances until he is sweating through his t-shirt, a dark “v” of sweat trailing down his chest. Dances, long after that now familiar heat in his newly ailing knees has crossed into discomfort. Dances closer and closer to the speaker until the music is indistinguishable from him, beating through his chest and down into his bones, and still; the two of you move your bodies. The two of you cling to each other like your life depends on it - and perhaps, precisely because of all the times it has.
When you lean forward, cupping his ear, your lips almost pressed right to his skin to be heard over the din, a warm snake travels down his spine. “See! We still haven’t been found out!” You draw back to flash him a mischievous grin, your eyes glinting with a spark far more warming than the heat which already slickens his skin.
You are most definitely up to something. You dip forward again as he strains to hear you. “Wanna be a little bolder?” There is a dark and delicious lilt in your voice. A tempting thing, enticing him into trouble - as per usual.
He does though. Wants to be a little bolder.
He wants to kiss you, in fact. To test the limits of just how well your bodies can move together. But… just like all the other times tonight he lets that desire atrophy. Pushes it outside of his body. You are so much more to him than the tingle in his dick. Offer him so much more than whatever parts of you he could seek out with his hands and his mouth, skin finding skin, finding deep, dark wetness.
If you wanted it, hey, it’s not like he would say no. He isn’t that strong; but he’d decided long ago that when it came to crossing that line, he would simply follow your lead.
“What did you have in mind?” Santiago asks, dipping his own lips towards your ear.
Your response is not quite what he expects. You simply throw both arms up into the air, your eyebrows jumping up with them. “Karaokeeee!”
It is a pleasant surprise, to be honest. He loves to see you like this. To see you have fun. Chasing your whims. Getting to be damn silly. For so long, everything has been so grim and so serious.
However, even if your suggestion - at first - inspires a broad, nose-crinkling smile, Santiago looks up at the freestanding mic in horror next - when he realises exactly what you are about to do. “Shit. Sweetie. It’s not-”
-It is already too late. You are already clambering up on stage and taking your position by the vacant mic spot. “…It’s not karaoke,” Santi mumbles under his breath, mentally readjusting his level on how wasted you are.
“Come with me, Pope!” you shout down to him, making grabby hands towards him. Next, you commandeer the mic pole as the frontman - who had simply stepped out for brief swig of water - looks on in confusion.
Santiago sighs and slides his palm over his face, for he knows, fine well, exactly what is about to go down. That, after all the times you’ve saved his skin, tended his wounds, and -damn- even been shot to keep him safe, he for sure isn’t about to let you make a fool of yourself. At least, not alone.
Cringing already from the forceful embarrassment of commandeering an entire stage at a wedding he’s just crashed, Santiago sets his jaw in resignation and hops semi-gracefully up there, rising to stand right next to you.
“What happens in Philadelphia…” he mumbles, before bracing himself and accepting his fate.
He raises his arm as a shield against the intense spotlight, and can suddenly see that the whole party is looking by now, heads whipping around following your triumphant “woop” into the microphone.
He makes a mental note to explain to you what the words “low profile” mean later, as clearly, you’ve completely failed to grasp that concept.
Santiago gulps as he looks out across the confused sea of faces, his mouth suddenly bone dry as he prays that no-one will actually yell “who the fuck are you?” Then, not for the first time this evening, he desperately attempts to conjure up a plan of action. Once again, he is pretty sure that cunnilingus won’t quite cut it here either.
His goal right now is two-fold. To enable you to sing on stage, like you want to, and to avoid being forcibly removed from the venue. It is unfortunate that the former goal seems to void the latter, but hey. He’s been in stickier situations. And, with luck, Santiago remembers one useful thing. The fact that -according to damn near everyone- he’s a charming little fucker. Now, he supposes, is as good a time as any to put that theory to the test.
“Nicole and Dio.” He gestures to the bride, and motions to gesture towards the groom too. That is, before realising he has no idea who “Dio” is in the crowd, so instead, he lets his arm flop uselessly back to his side. Next, he takes what he feels is a well-earned moment to let the feedback from the microphone die, wincing slightly at the noise, and becoming acutely aware of the sizzle of nervous sweat burning off of his forehead. “I think it’s safe to say,” he ventures with a little more confidence, straining to remember his cousin’s wedding and every platitude he might repeat, “that a love like yours comes around once in a lifetime. I know I speak for both of us when we say we’d like to wish you a lifetime of happiness together to enjoy it.” You helpfully lean forward in that moment and give another celebratory woop. “Thanks for that, sweetie,” he deadpans, wiping his brow just as urgently as he scans the room, searching for something -anything- he can pull from to meet his twinned objectives.
Suddenly though, against all odds, he actually spots his way out. Emphatically, triumphantly, he points towards the Irish flag proudly adorning the far wall, and dearly hopes he is on to something. “A million tiny things had to align for you two to come together. You could even say it was fate. So, in tribute to the miles travelled by your ancestors, here it is. This one is for the Irish-Americans in the house!” Firstly, he is relieved, to say the least, when that statement earns a hearty cheer from the crowd. “Let’s hear it for Metallica; Whiskey in the jar.” Secondly, he is relieved when that statement earns further cheers, particularly from you.
Next, Santiago looks confidently to the band, deciding he will simply stare at them pointedly until the drums kick in. “For Nicole and Dio!” he adds with a flourish after an uncomfortably long moment of inaction; and, as the crowd gets behind Santiago, who on earth are they to deny him?
“Everybody on the dance floor!” you add, with an enthusiasm so overblown it can’t fail to be infectious.
Still, when Santiago finally thinks he has it nailed, you turn to him with a sudden and pronounced wash of horror on your face. “Garcia. Shit. It’s not karaoke!”
“Princesa,” he soothes as the band kicks in, wrapping his arm firmly around your waist to avert your knees buckling in fright. “If it’s not karaoke, why the shit do I have a mic and a backing track, huh?” You still look unsure. “Come on, sing it with me. You’re hot as hell up here, don’t go shy on me.”
Santiago turns, forgetting the crowd entirely as his mission revolves wholly around you.
He begins to sing to you, gaze soft and encouraging until you relax back into it, your broad, electric smile returning. He tugs you closer into him, snug and safe until you grow bold enough to sing along with him into your one shared mic, gradually letting go and -bolstered by him- giving it increasing amounts of gusto.
The pool of guests at your feet are going surprisingly wild for it too, almost every one in the room having now descended on to the dance floor.
“Here,” he encourages, as soon as he feels you’re ready, handing the mic off to you for the remaining verses of the song. “You got this, sweetie.”
He lets you have your moment in the spotlight, cheering you on from the sidelines as you sing and air-guitar your way through the final chorus. You aren’t necessarily singing at your best after belting out lyrics at top volume, but what you lack in vocal ability you sure make up for in spirit. You have bags of that, and you perform it with plenty of showmanship, throwing yourself all over the stage and making Santiago’s face split with joy as he whoops along with you, fist-pumping enthusiastically.
You even end the song by taking a knee and exclaiming “Nicole and Dio!”, raising your mic arm triumphantly in the air like the rock star you are - which is a huge relief to Santiago, as it had looked for a moment like you were about to stage dive into the completely unsuspecting crowd.
You wrap it up to what Santiago will later describe as rapturous applause. You milk it for all it's worth, before relinquishing the mic to the actual band and skipping over to your biggest fan.
“Was I fucking amazing?” you ask, bundling him into an enclosing hug.
“Holy shit. Felt like I was watching Kerrang.”
You punch him playfully in the arm for his shit-eating grin. “Dickhead.”
“What’s next for the Birthday Princess?” Santi asks, hopping off of the stage and guiding you safely down too.
He’s secretly praying you’ll say “back to the motel”, but it doesn’t surprise him at all when you throw your arms jubilantly into the air and yell: “more dancing!”.
Santiago brings the pad of his thumb up to the corner of your mouth, finally smoothing away that damn lipstick smear he wishes he’d gotten to before your impromptu stage show. “Go for it, hermosa,” he insists fondly. “I’ll be with you in a sec, yeah? After pulling that shit, I don’t think we have long before we get busted. You gonna be ready to hustle soon?”
You nod, fist-bump him, and skitter off to the dance floor, your seemingly boundless energy carrying you right the way through towards dawn.
Santiago will give this track a miss, he thinks. His knees need a goddamn time-out; but his eyes still linger on you, shining fondly as you are folded into the crowd.
***
“Touching speech, lad,” a low-timbre voice sounds to Santiago’s left. “But who in the devil are ya?”
Santiago, who is sat blissfully nursing a glass of ice cold tap water, immediately swivels on his barstool. This puts him face-to-face with an older gentleman, of considerable stature.
The man’s crinkled, bushy-eyebrowed face is stern; but not unkind, even as his chin juts up in challenge. Santiago rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. There is no point trying to wriggle out of this one, and he’s already sure of it.
“Okay,” he responds, his voice slow and low and his palms raising defensively in the air. The man might be both older and frailer than Santiago, but he exudes a certain authority which trumps his own youthful confidence. In short, Santiago certainly doesn’t want to piss him off. “You got me. It’s a long story, and we weren’t technically invited… but we don’t mean any trouble, Sir. And, hey, we did bring a gift,” Santiago adds for good measure, not entirely convinced that the mushed up peanut butter cups in your jeans pocket will make any shade of difference now - but hoping.
The man presses his lips together and hums, as if mulling over the guilty party’s fate. After a moment of contemplation though, the older gentleman unceremoniously releases some of the rigidity from his body, slumping down into Santiago’s neighbouring bar stool with a sense of resolution. A gulp trails down Santiago’s neck all the same. “You a military pair, kid?” the man asks casually, making-out like he’s thoroughly absorbed in rolling his cigarette papers, but his sharp eyes still finding time to needle Santiago incisively. “I know the type.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hmm. Well.” The man licks along the long edge of cigarette paper with the tip of his tongue. “You came clean, I’ll keep quiet. Besides commandeering the stage(!), you two don’t seem like too much trouble.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“I’m Colin, by the way. Nicole’s granddaddy.” The man extends a hand and Santiago shakes it.
“Santiago. And hey, congratulations.”
Santiago would’ve allowed some of the tension to seep out of his own rigid body by now; except for the fact he can sense the man is not quite finished with him. He lights the tip of his cigarette with a battered-looking, engraved lighter, smoke swirling around him and becoming one with his white-gray, thinning hair. “Since I’ve been so generous, lad, how’s about you explain to me the circumstances that brought you to crash my granddaughter’s wedding?”
From the man’s unwavering stare, Santiago knows fine well this is a demand and not a suggestion. He rubs his sweaty palms together, finding himself reluctant to spill but with little apparent choice in the matter. Still, as his gaze flicks back in the direction of you, he feels a softness overcome him. “It’s her birthday. We’re on leave. Had a big trip planned to reunite with some buddies but the airport-“
“-ah. All shut down.” Colin nods in partial understanding, taking a long drag on his smoke.
“Yes, sir. So I, uh. Well, I had to improvise.”
Colin’s eyes flutter briefly closed. Then, a small flicker of a smile appears, as he - apparently - achieves a fuller understanding than Santiago’s divulgence should have allowed. An understanding which Santiago isn’t sure he has attained himself, as it stands. Is he missing something? “I see. You wanted to show her a good time.”
“Yeah. Yessir.”
To Santiago’s utter surprise, the man’s hand clasps down on top of his closest shoulder, the cigarette still pinned precariously in between his forefingers, and the smoke tangling around Santiago’s curls like future grays attempting to stick. “What are you drinking, lad?”
“Uh. Water,” Santiago replies simply, recalling the glass sweating on the bar top.
“Not any more.” Colin signals the bartender with a barely perceptible raise of his chin, and manages to convey his order simply by raising two of his fingers in the air.
Santiago watches as a bottle, sporting an affixed yellow post-it note, is grabbed-up from its secret hiding spot under the counter. Must be the good stuff.
When served, Colin slides one glass over to Santiago with the back of his age-spotted palm. “You don’t have to drink it, o’ course - I’ll just think you’re a rude fecker if you don’t.”
“Thank you, sir.” The two men swivel on their stools to face the bar and Santiago takes a sip, doing his best to hide his reaction to the intensity of it.
Colin guffaws. “Yeah. That’ll put hairs on yer chest.”
Santiago splutters, attempting to quickly smooth himself. “Cheers. To Nicole.” He hoists his glass in the air.
“Aye. Here’s to that.”
Santiago smiles, clinking his glass with Colin’s and hoping against all odds that you might come and rescue him soon.
You don’t, but mercifully the chat is suspended for a moment as the man coiffs his cigarette and his drink, and Santiago even suspects he has been forgotten entirely as another guest draws Colin into niceties and conversation.
Therefore, after a few warming swigs have slipped down his throat, each one followed by a grimace, Santiago turns, realising it has been a minute since he’s had eyes on you. He quickly locates you on the dance floor, boogying with some tall, white guy. A guy who is - with your encouragement - getting rather handsy. Seeing this, all of Santiago’s muscles tighten and he feels the vague urge to leap up off of his bar stool - that is, until Colin interjects.
“Can I give you some advice?”
Santiago’s initial thought is “no”; but he has a feeling Coilin may offer his unsolicited advice regardless. “Don’t crash weddings?” he jests half-heartedly, the lion’s share of his attention still on you and that guy’s damn hands.
“Marry her.”
Santiago’s gaze flips immediately towards Colin, his face the picture of abject confusion. “Sorry. Who?”
Colin chuckles to himself, evidently quite tickled, and nods his head gently in your direction. “Your lady friend.”
Santiago saws his palm over the five-o-clock shadow adorning his jaw. A weak, throaty chuckle bobs in his throat. He finds it funny. Preposterous. “With respect, Sir. That’s not gonna happen.” It is knee-jerk. Santiago had sworn off marriage long ago. Had long ago given up on the prospect of any form of happy ending. Besides, you and him? He doesn’t think so.
“Oh. Boyo,” Colin begins, his tone juuuust condescending enough to make Santiago stiffen. “You find someone who makes you as happy as that, you marry her. Trust me, lad.”
Santiago purses his lips. Tightens them into a thin line. “We’re not… together.” Not that it’s any of this guy’s business what you are to him; but he’s just not getting it.
“You love her,” Colin says softly. Almost gently, as though he’s breaking bad news.
”What?” Santiago shakes his head incredulously, blinking several times in succession.
“I can barely see past my own arm these days, lad, but I can see that much.”
There is that hand, clasping his shoulder again. This time it feels different. “You love her.”
The first time Colin had spoken these words, Santiago had bristled. Felt provoked. He should feel similarly now too - he knows it - but upon hearing them for a second time, a sudden clarity settles over him. In fact, he’s never felt less confused by a statement in his life.
He feels his mouth go dry. A sudden ringing in his ears. He could’ve sworn he had hands and feet earlier in the evening, but right now he can’t feel them.
Of course he loves you, he thinks, reaching for logic. For rationalisations. But it’s not like that. That’s simply what happens when you go through so much together. You bond, intensely. That’s all it is. All it amounts to.
Colin has this all wrong.
Santiago looks at you then. Really looks at you, as you grab your dance partner by the shirt and shove your tongue in his mouth, pulling away from the kiss with a wolfish grin. Some kind of feeling he can’t hope to name tightens like a fist in his stomach when you do that. “She’s…” Santiago wants to protest. Wants to say that no, he doesn’t. But those aren’t quite the words which find their way out. Instead, he says quietly, like he’s delivering bad news now: “she’s my best friend.”
“Ah,” Colin breathes, in a fresh tone of relief. As if satisfied. As if he has now achieved full understanding - even if Santiago has not. The older man stubs out his cig and downs the dregs of his whiskey, cheersing Santiago once more with a clink of his empty glass. “There you go then. Isn’t that the same thing?”
Isn’t that the same thing?
It is a blur from there. A blur as Colin once again outstretches his hand and Santiago obliges by shaking it, his arm feeling limp and useless like a bag of cotton-wool. It is a blur as Colin wishes him well with a jolly “take care, lad,” sauntering away with no concern for the destruction left in his wake.
It is a blur as you sidle over, as though the volume in the room has been turned down all of a sudden. It becomes gradually louder again as you approach.
You.
You.
You.
“Fuck, you okay, Garcia? You look like you’re about to puke.”
There’s nothing here.
Nothing with you.
Nothing he could have with you. No way.
“Seriously! You look queasy as hell.” You place your hand across his brow to see if he’s burning up.
“No. ‘M good. Fine,” he says tightly.
You nod, still looking sceptical but opting to buy what he’s selling. “You just tired? Too much dancing?”
”Heh. Something like that.” It is a struggle to push the words out, but he surprises himself. Gradually sinks himself back into the room. Back into his body.
Santiago notices the brief spark of an idea fleet over your face as you regard him and, in the next moment, you dip forward to chastely kiss him on the cheek. He feels a deep, blooming heat develop under his skin, his cheeks darkening with a crimson flush, and he resists the urge to clamp his palm over the spot your lips touched. “What was that for?”
A delicate smile dances on your mouth. “Thank you, butthead. I’m having a good birthday.”
It’s what you don’t say. It’s what your eyes are telling him. Your body language. Your touch. You’re telling him things you’ve been saying for a long time now. Things which, thanks to Colin, beg a whole load of new questions.
You slip your hand down his arm, grasping his hand in yours. For a moment he just stares, looking down at your hands clasped there together. He is vaguely aware of the track switching in the background, to a slower, more heartfelt tune, and, by the time he drags his eyes back-up to yours, he figures he’s got a head start already on what you’re about to ask.
He makes it so you don’t even have to. “One more dance?”
He stands, capturing your waist with his wrapped arm, leading you back towards the dance floor. The surprise and relief and glee on your face as he preempts you is almost too bright for him to look at.
“You even know how to slow dance, Garcia?” you ask as he maneuvers the two of you into prime position, right in the beam of a sweeping purple spotlight, the dancefloor filling exclusively with swaying couples as the tender, swooping song resonates through the room.
“Haven’t slow danced since prom,” he admits. “But I’ll follow your lead, Princesa.”
“You a’ways do, asshat.”
“You know? You’re not wrong. Now, come here.”
He holds his arms out and you step into his sturdy circumference, no hesitation. Trust implicit, your bodies moving in sync. You drape the loop of your arms gently around his shoulders, your twined fingers brushing the nape of his neck, sending a warm shudder through him. His hands hover helplessly for a moment, but he eventually settles them on your hips, drawing your body closer, tightening the space between you as you each sway together, cheek to cheek.
“I - I can’t believe you did this for me, you know?” Your voice is lower, dropped in your throat. Heavy with solemnity as though you are thanking him for taking a bullet for you or something. “Tonight. The karaoke. Everything.”
“Well,” he dismisses, against the shell of your ear. It’s not nearly enough.“You got shot for me, so...”
Your light, lilting laugh fans across his check. It isn’t funny at all, wasn’t a joke; except that it’s so tragic it kinda has to come full-circle, he supposes. “Fine,” you offer. “Call it even?”
Even?
It could never get close to even.
Santiago feels a surge of emotion welling in him. Like suddenly there is a mechanism dredging all the settled silt back up to the surface. It rises all the way up - into his chest, into his throat. He pulls back slightly until you are face to face, his expression far more severe than the situation merits; but he can’t help it. It feels barbed, difficult, coming out of his mouth, but it needs to be said. “You have no idea what you’ve done for me, you know?” His eyes are glistening, a telltale softness nestled beneath his thick brows, and his thumbs unconsciously rubbing circles into the meat of your hips. “You’re…. I… I mean. You’re… my best friend.”
You gawp back at him for a moment, visibly caught off-guard by his emotional intensity. Then: “oh no,” you whisper-shout into the space between you, as though if you push too much sound out, the emotions might overspill along with it. “Don’t get all soppy on me, you hear? You’re the only fucker who knows I have emotions, and I damn sure wanna keep it that way.”
His gaze flits all over your face. “Secret’s safe with me, Princesa.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He smiles at you - a smile that only reaches his eyes.
You nestle yourself back into the crook of his shoulder, your body pressed right up against his. One hand grasping at his back. The fingers of the other clasping his shorn head, dancing over the prickled hair of his army-issue buzzcut.
He holds you, and in turn you hold him even tighter. You hold each other tightly until you are no longer even dancing. Until you are simply an island in a sea of undulating couples, holding on to each other for dear life.
It scares him.
It scares him to his depths that he never wants to let you go; but not enough to stop.
As he pulls you close to him, buries his face in your neck and embraces you tightly, he thinks about it. He thinks about whether he believes in happy endings. He thinks about whether his, if he could be so lucky, would involve you.
Those thoughts are interrupted when he feels a wetness bloom on his shoulder. Feels you jerking and sniffing against him, and he experiences your sudden outpouring of pain as acutely as though it is his own.
“Hey. Hey,” he soothes. “What is it?”
”I’m not sad, idiot.”
”No?”
”No. It’s…” You sniff. “It’s just been so hard lately. And, you know. Tonight has been so… It’s been so…”
He thinks he knows what you mean. Thinks he understands you completely. “Perfect?” he ventures.
“Yeah,” you exhale. “Perfect.”
He holds you as you cry. And there’s not a chance in hell he’s letting you go.
***
Considering your intoxication level, the sudden onset of tiredness, and your tears, Santiago figures it’s about time to head. He manages to get you in a cab back to the motel eventually - only after you’ve visited the ladies restroom, become fast friends with an equally drunken Nicole, bestowed her with peanut butter cups, and promised to meet-up next time you’re in the city. By this point, you are already dropping, and the soporific movements of the cab have you falling asleep draped over Santiago’s lap.
He pays the driver when you arrive, stirring you with a warm hand smoothing up and down your back. He tries to be calm. Soothes you with his voice; because he knows all too well that for someone in the military, a rude awakening is no small thing.
He walks you to the room and helps you sit down on the bed. Tugs your boots off for you as you opt to bury your nose deep in your own armpit and sniff.
“Ew. I need a fucking shower.”
“Fuck that. You can shower in the morning.”
“I stink.”
“Trust me. You’ve smelled much worse.” He smiles softly as his comment earns an indignant snort from you, but the ire in your face is quickly snuffed as he looks up to you a little too softly. “Let’s get you dressed for bed, alright, birthday girl?”
“Mmm hmm. Okay then.”
He swallows a smile at seeing you in this sleepy state. It’s not often that you allow anyone else to take care of you. In fact, Santiago feels a strange surge of honour - a glow within his chest - that tonight, he is the one who has the privilege.
You unabashedly begin to strip off your jeans and top next, and Santiago quickly scoops up an oversized t-shirt from the gaping mouth of your hold-all. “Here,” he says, swallowing the tremor in his voice as he gathers the fabric up and guides the garment gently over your head to cover you. Gingerly passes your arms through the right holes. “That’s it. Put this on, alright? Can you get your bra out from under there?”
You maneuver the clasp and straps beneath the cover of the shirt until you are pulling the bra out from the confines of your tee, triumphantly flinging it across the room with a soft “woo!”, to which Santiago’s lips twitch in silent amusement.
“Need to brush my teeth at least,” you argue, holding your arms up and out - making grabby hands to signal for his help.
“Alright. Sure. Let’s go together.” Santiago helps you stand. Maneuvers and encourages you onwards. He wraps his closest arm around your waist, and his other hand catches the arm you throw out to him so he can keep you steady. Then, steps in sync, you pad the short distance to the bathroom, Santiago lightly directing you away from bumping your hip on the doorframe (again) as you pass through it. “That’s it. Little off course there,” he chuckles. “Almost as bad as Ironhead’s God-awful driving.”
You turn your head over your shoulder and scold him good-naturedly. “Ouch. Don’t remind me.”
“Yikes, sorry. Too soon?” You’d teased Will for the unfortunate humvee training exercise that had put you in med bay, but Santiago guesses you aren’t quite ready to have him joke about it yet.
“Never getting back in a car with that bastard in the driver’s seat, trust me. Fella takes off-road a little too literally, you know? Still have that goddamn tweak in my back too to prove it.”
“You do, huh?” Shit, you’ve certainly hidden it well enough - had insisted you were unscathed, in fact, when sober - and so Santiago mentally logs that information for later.
With a little bit of wriggling around, you squeeze into the tight bathroom space. When you reach the bathroom sink, Santiago is still behind you, his hands now clamped on your hips and keeping you steady. When you turn on the faucet and bend enthusiastically towards the stream of water however - hinging at the hips and dipping to splash your face with cold water - Santi punches out a strangled note. Which is natural, he thinks, given that your panty-clad, half-bare ass is thrust further into his hands (and his crotch), with decidedly no room in the cramped space for him to back-up. “Woah, Jesus. Keep it vertical, would you?”
“Shit, sorry. Liked that did you?” you mock, with a dirty, chaotic snigger.
“I’m only a man, Princesa.”
With a nervous twist in his belly, Santiago flees to the more expansive space of the bedroom, leaving you to complete your task. Feeling somewhat claustrophobic, he throws open the window, thankful when the relative cool of the night air kisses his skin. The room has grown hot and sticky all of a sudden. Too close. Lord knows why.
He perches himself inside the opened wooden square then, the flung-open frame an awkward perch. He rests with one leg hiked up on the ‘sill and one foot bracing him on the floor, his back reclining against the biting vertical edge.
Only when you reenter does he reluctantly drag his eyes away from the black night and into the soft, shadowed shell of the dreary room. Despite this dimness, he can barely bring himself to look at you in this moment. It is as though you are too bright for him, and so he quickly -and uncharacteristically- averts his eyes.
Still, you’re like a magnet, and his gaze quickly relocates you without much trouble.
“Feel like staying awake a little longer?”
Despite looking bleary-eyed - dead on your feet, even - you nod in response to his proposition and, much unlike earlier, Santiago suddenly feels he wouldn’t dream of sleeping. You perch yourself on the edge of the bed and flick on the lamp, casting a sallow glow throughout the room. It makes you look at once dream-like and infinitely more real to him, as the glare highlights the goose flesh trailing up your arms and thighs. The tired circles under your eyes. He doesn’t know how you make such details attractive, but as far as he is concerned, there is no bad light to cast you in.
You lay down, legs stretched out on the scratchy comforter, and torso propped against the stiff, unforgiving pillows. You make space for him to lie down alongside you, and yet Santiago opts to hover, not ready to relinquish his window seat. It’s as uncomfortable as it probably looks, however, and so he fumbles in his pocket for a smoke, figuring it as good an excuse as any to be sitting up there - instead of lying next to you. He stares out into the blackened parking lot with enough vigour to convince an onlooker it is entirely compelling - instead of looking at you.
You are quiet for a moment following and Santiago lets it hang, exhaling twists of smoke from his mouth to the window. Flicking his spent ash down onto the asphalt below. Then, you expel a blustery sigh.
“Shit,” you grumble. You click your tongue. Santiago turns to see you lying flat on your back now, staring contemplatively up at the dusty, motionless ceiling fan, arms folded behind your head. “That guy I made out with.”
Santiago takes an even deeper drag on his smoke; perhaps unconsciously hoping that if he is occupied long enough, he won’t be required to respond at all.
Your head lollops to the side, your gaze finding his. “Do me a favour and don’t tell Tommy I did that, okay?”
Fuck.
“Wait. Tommy?! You and Tommy?” The words are expelled faster than he would’ve wanted, almost making him choke on a cloak of hot smoke. “Tommy fucking Nelson?”
“Yeahhh. We’ve, um, sorta… been hooking-up lately.”
Santiago quickly inhales another drag, smoke seething out of his nostrils as he flicks the used cigarette butt down to the asphalt below. He is grateful that the lungful gives him a second to think before he speaks - yet apparently, it is not quite long enough. “Shit. The guy’s so stacked I swear he must have abs on his dick.”
You laugh; and Santiago decides that, based on the beauteous sound of it alone, Tommy fucking Nelson doesn’t even remotely deserve you.
“I dunno about abs on his dick… but he’s got enough to work with, know what I mean?”
Santiago continues to peer out of the window, and so you don’t see his face crumple with a frown. “So he’s good, huh?”
You scoff to yourself. “Oh. Fuck. Not really. He doesn’t do much of the work…” Your dirty laugh sounds out. “Fortunately, I’m a goddamn miracle worker when it comes to getting myself off.”
Strike two. Tommy Nelson definitely doesn’t deserve you.
You giggle. Giggle like this is a girls’ fucking sleepover. Like you are revealing some - far more innocent - secret to a best friend.
But… of course. Because that’s precisely what he is to you, right? Nothing more, nothing less. And that’s never bothered him before. Has never bothered him until precisely now.
What exactly has gotten into him tonight, then? Why does some old guy have his head in a spin? Why is he delaying crawling onto his side of the bed? Why can’t he look at you?
Further delaying the inevitable, Santiago pats down his pockets, hoping for another cigarette with which to prolong his diversion by the window. However, he comes up short. Has no other recourse left besides brushing his teeth, kicking off his shoes, stripping down to his boxers, and laying his body out alongside yours. The mattress dips as he settles on top of the covers, and you swivel on to your side to face him.
“Hey.” You prod him in the pec. “What about you anyway?”
“What about me?”
You reach down. Snap the elastic hem of his boxers until it pings back against his toned stomach. “Been getting any lately?”
He makes a vague, non-committal sound, hoping it will be enough; but, of course, you don’t stop there.
“Your dream girl… Let’s see.” Your eyes spark, far too animated considering such a long night. “Wait. Don’t tell me. She’s… nude. Huge breasts.” Santiago had wanted to roll his eyes at you, honestly, but he finds he can’t quite quash his smile. “She’s… I know… draped in the American Flag.” His face splits with mirth. “Reciting the Fifth Amendment.” You prod him emphatically in the pec. “Plus she plays bass in a Pearl Jam cover band and gives next-level blow jobs.” His gaze sweeps over your shit-eating grin like a paintbrush over a canvas. Like fingers down a guitar fret. Like it belongs there. Like he belongs here. “Well?” you’d needled. “Am I warm yet?”
“Wait, I think I know her.” Santiago snaps his fingers. “Hey. Yeah. Didn’t she hook-up with Benny last week?”
You twist as chaotic laugh spills out of you, throwing your arm over him and dipping your head towards his bare chest. It is a small thing. A minute, unconscious action. A brief touch. A single moment. Except… the way it makes his stomach lurch makes it completely undeniable to him. Undeniable that the only girl doing it for him is you.
He realises it all now though, as he looks at you. Realises he’s been seeing you in pieces. In fragments; because of course he has. Of course, because he’s been trying to survive, and if he’d dared to think, instead, about living? Well, then he’d have far too much to lose.
“Come onnn,” you purr, jutting out your bottom lip, entirely oblivious to the way the ground is disappearing from beneath him as you remain curled into his side. “Give me some gossip. It’s my birthday!”
He swallows. Tries to pull himself together. Tries to be exactly what you need him to be.
“Christ.” He nervously scratches at the stubble sprouting along his jaw. “Well. Let’s see. First of all, I’ve spent so long without any action but my own goddamn fist that even Morales is starting to look appealing.”
“Well? Do you think he’d be down?”
“He should be so lucky. Anyway. He’s got a girl back home. High school kinda sweetheart deal.”
You scoff. “What? For real?”
“Mm hmm. He’s in it too. His eyes mightta wandered occasionally - but as far as I know his dick never has.”
You pump your eyebrows like that surprises you. “Good for him.” And then: “It won’t last though.”
“Christ. You’re really that cynical already?”
“Something like that,” you smirk. “Guess it comes with the old age.”
“Oh yeah. Speaking of birthdays…” Santiago pushes off his elbow and swivels, reaching to fumble a tiny, square parcel from his jeans pocket. He settles back into position with a grin on his face, extending his gift toward you. You eye it sceptically, but with casual intrigue.
“Fuck me. Something else from your trousers that’s been manhandled to death, Santiago? You know how to treat a lady.”
He can’t explain why he feels nervous as you weigh the package in your palm. “It’s… for protection.”
“A fucking condom?”
“Ay, dios. Just open it, would you?”
You rise up, settling cross-legged on top of the covers, and Santiago shifts to mirror you, with a lopsided, self-conscious smile. You pause, looking between him and the package with a gentle, subdued glee. You gingerly peel the red tissue paper away, revealing the gift nestled within. As soon as you observe what is inside, however, the glee evaporates from your face. You look down at it, for once rendered speechless before you say his name, the sound as thin as the wisps of smoke still eddying up on the ceiling. “Santiago.”
He swallows. Saws his hand across his stubble, suddenly worried that the gesture is all off. “It’s-”
Your eyes snap up to his, your expression raw and soft. “-I know what it is.”
You look back down to the gift now, warmly. Lift them up, a string of black rosary beads unfurling. The beads his mom had gifted him for protection the day before he’d shipped out, clamping her hands over his and reciting a prayer he didn’t believe in, but which he’d felt all the way down to his marrow. The beads that he’d kept on him ever since, usually nestled in the pocket of his tac vest. The beads which his mother had prayed would keep him safe. Would protect him, when it had turned out to be you who had answered her prayer. You who had protected him, at whatever cost.
“But I can’t-“
Stupid. You’re stupid. Of course you can.
“It’s no big deal. I’m just a cheapskate,” he minimises.
You inhale, about to launch a protest, but you must read something altogether too earnest in his face, since any such argument is subdued as soon as you look at him. Instead then, you hold them up once more, your eyes glistening as you admire the cheap, plastic beads for far more than they are worth.
“But won’t your mom-“
“Be mad I gave them away?” You let the beads pool in one palm, the red tissue paper now strewn over your lap like swatches of blood. Santiago clamps his hands over yours, nestling the beads safely within, in a gesture which mirrors his mother’s own plea a little too closely. He empathises with her then. With her fear of being left behind. With her fear for his soul and its fate. “Are you shitting me? You saved her angelito. She’d probably sign the goddamn house over to you. I mean, shit - she’s already been bugging me to bring her new hija over for tamales.”
He hasn’t ever told you that before. Maybe that’s why you do it. Why you gently cup his face and dip to render a light, chaste kiss on the corner of his lips. When you draw back from him, you look almost as surprised by the gesture as he is.
“Santiago.” Your eyes well-up. “It really means a lot.”
He doesn’t have words for a moment. It does. It means a lot to him, and he’s struck with sentimentality when he realises that it means something to you too. He nods once, gaze gently dancing over your face.
“I mean it,” you squeeze out through welling tears. “This is the sweetest thing-“
“-Shh. Oh no. No, no, no,” he captures your tears with the crook of his forefinger just as they spill over, motioning as though he is attempting to restore them to whence they came, a soft yet playful concern dancing over his face. “Quick sharp. Put these back,” he whisper-shouts, faux urgently. “No-one can know you feel things.”
His remark causes you to laugh through your tears, as you hastily lift a balled fist to scrub them away. The sounds dissolve into a pleasant yet taut silence, leaving the two of you simply looking into each other’s eyes.
You are the first to break it, dropping your gaze down towards your lap.
“Listen. Thank you.”
“It’s the least I could do.“
Your expression grows more troubled then, a divot notching in your brow and your head shaking softly side to side. “Santiago. I need to say this. You… you don’t owe me any debt. Okay? And… and don’t you even think -ever- about trying to repay it. You hear me?”
He owes you everything, and he’ll repay it however he can; but he isn’t about to argue with you. Instead, he simply nods. Forces an even, concessionary smile, leaning into a swift topic change. “You tired yet?”
“Yeah. Exhausted.”
“Let’s lie down then, alright?”
“Mmm.” You set the beads down so carefully on your nightstand that it constricts his chest, arranging them in a nest of tissue paper. “It’s just… I…”
“What?”
He flicks off the lamp and you lay down on your back, staring up at the ceiling fan, the room now illuminated only by the distant glow of the motel’s neon sign across the lot. It bathes the room in a purple-tinged dark. When your voice comes back, it is small. “It’s just that I… I don’t want this night to end.”
Santiago lays himself out, right next to you. “Then let’s try and stay awake, huh?”
“Yeah. Let’s do that.” You shiver; then, instead of crawling beneath the scratchy comforter like he expects, you curl into his side. Rest your head against his chest. Santiago’s arms hover over you for a moment, as though he doesn’t know what to do. In actual fact though, it comes far too naturally to him.
He wraps you in his arms, and begins to smooth one hand up and down your back - of course, being careful not to venture too low, even as you torque your body into his touch.
You exhale against him. Hum, up against his bare, tan skin. Drape your arm over him, and, reliably, there is that knot again. That fist, tightening inside his chest.
“Hey,” he croaks, voice smaller than it needs to be. “Birthday princess?”
“Mmm.”
“Do you…?”
“Do I what?”
He hesitates. Stares coldly and contemplatively up at the ceiling fan himself now even as he bundles the warmth of you in his arms. “Do you believe in happy endings?”
He feels your breathy expletive fan over his chest. “Fuck. That’s a big one.”
“Sorry. Forget it, you don’t have to-“
“-No. I do,” you say with certainty. “I do believe in them.”
Santiago hopes that you can’t feel his heart thundering beneath the shell of your ear. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Except… not for people like us.”
His brow tightens, mouth turning down at the corners. “Why not?”
“Well,” you muse, wriggling pointedly until his hand - stopped dead with suspense - resumes its ministrations over your back, his fingers obediently seeking out the knots and notches until your airy hum sounds again. “Because our hands are too bloody now to build anything good. Right?”
It’s strange because, right now, caressing you like this, he could almost forget that his hands are blood-soaked. Your touch is the only reminder he’s had in some time that his hands can indeed be loving. In fact, the whole concept of war feels so entirely incongruous to him while he’s holding you. Like it could not be further away, even though -in your lives- it is only ever around the corner. He pushes his response out from the depths of his chest. “Don’t you think that’s just a little bleak?”
“I dunno.” You shrug, and he doesn’t enjoy how sad your voice grows . How old you somehow sound all of a sudden. “It’s just… They told us we’d be heroes, Santi. But… When was the last time you felt like one?”
You’re my hero, he thinks loudly, in the achingly quiet room; but, he catches the words before they make it out of his throat. In the end, nothing more than a small, reined-in grunt manages to escape.
“Why do you ask, anyway?”
Because you deserve one. More so than anyone he’s ever met, you deserve one.
His fingers and the heel of his hand continue to massage the dink in your back, rooting out every source of tension. Learning how to take the pain apart for you like a weapon in his palm. “Dunno,” he lies. “The wedding. All that.”
“Pfft. I give ‘em a month.”
“You’re fucking brutal, you know that?”
“And you’re hilarious. Shit. Happy fucking endings? Man. At this point, I think I’d settle for a happy middle, you know? Before I go down in my inevitable blaze of glory.”
“Don’t say that,” Santiago scolds, his voice taut. “I hate when you talk like that.”
He doesn’t blame you. For being cynical or pessimistic - not really. Doesn’t blame you one bit. Not after you’d legitimately looked death in the face. He understands well enough what that can do to a person. How it can change them. How, even someone like you, who always saw a clear, bright path ahead, could begin to doubt the clarity of that vision.
Absent-mindedly, you circle the pad of your forefinger in the valley of his pecs. “What about you, then? Do you believe in all that stuff? Marriage? Happy endings?”
“Meh. Not so much,” he answers honestly, fissures in his voice. Maybe it is his ingrained Catholic guilt talking, but he certainly doesn’t feel like he deserves a happy ending. Not after the things he’s done. Not after all that blood.
“Then how about this, Santiago Garcia,” you begin, tone much more playful, like you’ve had a bright idea. “Would you settle for a lifetime of trouble-making with your ride or die?”
You extend your pinky towards him for the most sacred of all vows, and he curls his own little finger around yours.
He intends his response to feel light-hearted. Equally playful. He really does. But, when the words escape his lips they are heavy. Dripping and weighed with sentimentality. “With you, honestly, it doesn’t really feel like settling.” He suddenly feels like someone is sitting on his chest. Like the air is scarce and sharp with some incendiary cloud - about to ignite and burn everything he’s known to the ground.
“Kiss ass,” you poke lightly, and a wistful smile briefly dances across his features.
“It’s only what you’re due.”
“Oh?! A thorough ass-kissing?”
“Sure. Maybe you can get Tommy-abs-on-his-dick-Nelson right on that.”
You snicker chaotically. “Huh. Maybe.”
Santiago jostles you gently in his embrace. “Hey. Speaking of. Sorry you got lumbered with the sideshow tonight, by the way.”
“Fuck off, Pope,” you huff, like he’s just said something which causes deep offence. “Of all the chumps I couldda been stuck with, I’m glad it was you.” Santiago’s heart flutters, his chest blooming with a hazy, metered-out warmth when he hears you say those words. “Now. Wish me happy birthday one more time, and then sing me a damn lullaby, would you?”
Santiago crushes his chin down to his chest to get a better look at you, having decided that you must surely be joking. “Huh?!”
“We all knew about your guitar skills but you have a beautiful set of pipes too? Been holding out on me, Pope. Now, sing!”
“Jesus. You’re demanding, Princesa.”
“It’s only what I’m due, right? Come on, I haven’t got all night, asshat!” Somehow, the derogatory term sounds imbued with a deep fondness somehow, and it blooms through him.
“Alright. Alright. Keep your panties on.” Shit - you had better.
“Thank you.”
Santiago dips his chin so he can reach your hairline. Settles a chaste kiss there, which lingers a touch too long - but which he can’t possibly cut any shorter, his eyes closing as his lips brush your skin. “Happy birthday,” he breathes, completing part one of your demand. With any luck, he thinks, you might fall straight to sleep like this - before he even has to serenade you.
He stills as your eyes flutter closed, listening out for the slowed pace of your breathing. That is, until you open one eye and whisper-hiss up at him. “Sing.”
A resigned amusement twitches his plush lips and he finally obliges you. He begins softly speak-singing, hoping his soporific and sandy tones will lull you towards sweet dreams, his broad palm still sweeping up and down your back.
“She gives me everything
And tenderly…”
A soft smile graces your features as you note his song choice. “Cobain? You’re such an angsty little gremlin, you know that?”
“I can stop at any time,” he threatens, teasingly.
“No. No, please.”
He clears his throat. Lets his voice grow a touch more full and resonant, despite it being scuffed by tiredness and smoke.
“The kiss my lover brings,
She brings to me-ee,
And I love her.”
It is a little funny, at first. A little awkward; until suddenly, it isn’t . Until, suddenly, a weight settles in your brow. Until his voice begins to falter, cracking apart with emotion.
He hadn’t been able to say it. Clearly not even to acknowledge it.
He hadn’t been able to find the words to tell you what you mean to him. To explain the pit in him which had opened up when he’d almost lost you. Didn’t have the words to tell you you were the reason he’d prayed for the first time in ten years, pledging loyalty to a God he hadn’t believed in -hadn’t needed - until he was begging Him not to take you. He didn’t know how to describe the way it had felt for him to kneel by your bedside, his mother’s rosary beads clutched in his palm so tightly the cross has drawn blood - even as he’d openly cursed them for protecting him and not you, and had cursed you for the same.
He swallows the hard, tight knot which has gnarled in his throat. Wonders if maybe he can stop, because singing feels like purging himself of far too much of the pain and love he has buried, and fuck, it hurts on the way out.
He does consider stopping. That is, until your small, grief-laden voice sounds out as though it hurts you too; but that you need to hear what he is finally telling you. “Please. Don’t stop?”
It is a question, this time, not a demand; and yet, Santiago couldn’t dream of denying you.
And so, with a weight in his brow, he keeps on singing.
“Bright are the stars that shine,
Dark is the sky.
I know this love of mine,
Will never die.”
It is at this point his voice cracks wide open. It is at this point a single tear slips across the bridge of his nose as he sings it out loud. Something he’d known for a long time, in truth, but hadn’t quite found the words for:
“And I love her.”
The room seems eerily still as you each hold your breath. He doesn’t know where to go from here - but luckily, you always seem to know the way forward.
“You know,” you say softly, voice wet with emotion. “It’s a real shame. Because if you did believe in happy endings?”
“Yeah?” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“You’d look pretty good as somebody’s endgame, butthead.”
An emotion Santiago can’t name twists through his middle, like he is being wrung out. Like his blood-soaked soul is finally being purged. It is no wonder then, that his words come out dripping red. Soaked in cynicism. With a disbelief that anything good -for him - is deserved. “Let’s get each other through the happy middle first,” he says, as hidden tears glitter on his long lashes. “Then maybe we’ll see about endings, huh?”
You don’t speak for a moment. Simply swallow in the near-dark. But, it is not lost on him that you hold him just a shade tighter. Then, when he hears a gentle intake of breath from you, he knows your request before you even utter it.
Please.
He resumes his singing. Slower, more off tempo. Begins to repeat the lines, over and over, softer and softer, until your breathing is deep and soporific. Until your weight on him is heavier. Heavier from sleep, and heavier from this new knowledge he has gained.
And, there it is. The end of the night, and yet Santiago cannot dream of sleeping. Not yet. Can only watch you, hold you, listen to your soft breathing, his heart full with a new understanding. And understanding he didn’t invite, but a welcome guest all the same.
He resolves it then. Resolves that, even if he doesn’t deserve a happy ending, he will do everything in his power to make sure you get yours…
Even if that means letting all hope of you -for him- go.
So, as he cradles you in his arms and stares unsleeping up at the ugly ceiling fan, Santiago contemplates it.
Contemplates in great detail the four days with you that irrevocably changed the course of his life.
The day he met you.
The day he almost lost you.
The day he realised he was in love with you.
And the day he started running from that.
The first day had been two years ago, the second had been five months ago, the third had been today, and the fourth?
The fourth will be tomorrow.
Tomorrow, he will start running, because his feelings for you are far too deep and huge for him to handle.
He doesn’t even pause to wonder whether he’ll ever allow himself to stop. After all, once Santiago Garcia has a mission, he accepts nothing less than completion.
Maybe he’s no hero; but he always gets the job done.
#ride or die series#santiago pope garcia x reader#triple frontier#santiago garcia#oscar isaac#santiago pope garcia
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Nanami Kento x You (fem!bi!reader) <3
Nanami Kento is the type of man who loves watching you have sex with other women.
He’s obsessed. Ever since you told him you were also into women, but never explored that side of your sexuality, he couldn’t stop picturing it.
He couldn’t stop picturing your pretty hands in another woman’s hair. Your naked chests squishing together while in a passionate embrace. Your lips on hers, licking and nibbling with such gentleness and sensuality.
He couldn’t stop picturing you in between her soft legs, caressing her thighs as you spread them apart. Watching your look of awe as you examined the dripping cunt in front of you.
He couldn’t stop picturing your fingers graze her inner folds, spreading around the slick there. Your mouth slowly coming to meet her clit, softy suckling at the tender bud.
He couldn’t stop picturing you moaning into her pussy, as her taste washed over you.
He couldn’t stop picturing you mounting her, watching as you rubbed your slicked mound onto hers. Your tits bouncing up and down with each of your thrusts, her hands coming up to hold them in place.
He pictured your cum mixing with hers as you humped her over, and over, and over, and over…..
It took everything in his power to convince you that he wanted this for you. He would moan it in your ear as he was fucking you. He would bring it up at the dinner table. When you outlined your concerns, he reassured you in every way.
When you felt confident enough, you gave him your ultimatum.
“I appreciate you wanting this for me, wanting all corners of my sexuality to be connected. But the truth is, Ken, I want my romantic life to begin and end with you.”
You watch as is eyes soften, looking down at you with such love. Nanami is truly all you have ever wished for, yet exceeds all your expectations.
“However,” you began, watching a twinkle of hope glimmer in his brown orbes, “when it comes to my sexual life,” you trail off, feeling your breath hitch in your throat.
Closing your eyes and refocusing, you continue, “I do want to discover more about myself. But I need you to be there with me every step of the way.”
You open your eyes to a smile. Nanami looked like he was told the greatest news he ever heard, because, well, it was.
“Of course, baby.” Nanami grabbed you into a bear hug, bringing his nose down to your head and smelling your pear scented shampoo.
You continued your conversation, telling him the perimeters for such events. Firstly, he was to pick the women. You didn’t want to tangle yourself romantically with any of them, not wanting to risk any of them gaining unnecessary expectations. Communication must be limited to only logistics.
Secondly, Nanami had to be there in the room. He could sit and watch, and was encouraged to play with himself. You even said that he could participate, only if it was something that everyone wanted. But he quickly shut you down.
“I don’t want to get involved in that way. I just want to watch.” He spoke tenderly, running his hands up and down your arms. “Besides, watching is more fun.”
You could feel his smirk on your temple. Pulling back to look up at him, you meet his lips in a passionate kiss. His hands slowly grazed up to your neck, placing them gently on either side. His tongue gently parted your lips and made its way inside to meet yours.
His member was hard against your stomach, and you instinctually reached out to provide some relief.
Before you could unzip his pants, he reaches down and halts your movements. Looking up at him in confusion, you were met with his toothy grin.
“Hold on,” he began, “let’s wait, we need to get you a sexy woman.” His brows wiggled, giddy in his movements.
You stared at him in disbelief.
“Right now?!” You laugh and yell at the same time.
Nanami grabs you by your ass and lifts you to wrap around his torso. Bringing you to the floor to ceiling windows in your apartment, you both look down to the bustling street below.
“Hmmmmm,” he ponders while scanning the movement below, holding you up with one hand under your ass, he points down to the street, “what about her?”
You slap his chest and scoff at his eagerness, but when you follow his finger to the woman standing at the cross walk below, your mouth falls open.
“Damn,” you muse, “she is so hot.”
Suddenly the world was spinning, the wind fully being knocked out of you as you were thrown on your shared plush king bed across the room. Before you have time to gather your thoughts, you hear the front door of your apartment open and the rustling of Nanami throwing on his shoes.
“I’ll be right back!” He yells, practically tripping over himself.
You couldn’t help but laugh at how shocked you are. Shaking your head, you crawl off the bed and over to the window. After a few beats, you see Nanami burst out the front entrance of your apartment complex, gathering himself, then walking coolly over to the women in red.
You watched their exchange in wonder, feeling the shmooze exude off of him. To your disbelief, the woman walked with him right into your apartment.
“Oh my god.”
#nanami x you#nanami kento smut#nanami kento#nanami x reader#nanami x y/n#kento smut#kento x reader#jjk kento#jujutsu kaisen
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Kingdom Come
Summary: Min Yoongi realizes that despite his efforts of keeping the reader safe, he cannot hide her forever.
Tags: yoongi x reader!AU, fluff, angst, smut (prostate play), switch!yoongi, switch!reader
A/N: I know I disappeared for six months but a girl gotta work unfortunately. With Yoongi's comeback, however, it made me want to write a period piece inspired by daechwita yoongi. So, here yah go:)
The tile is cold against your feet. It's not often that you find yourself wandering his home barefoot but when you do, you always feel much closer to the Earth than before. It gives you a small sense of safety, like you're better prepared to exit quickly and quietly should you run into someone you're not supposed to see.
It doesn't take you terribly long to get to his room. Of course you wish you didn't have to sneak, but you understand the consequences if you happen to get caught. How does a king, a ruler of thousands of people, find himself meeting with a woman of your status? A simple baker from the village below, sneaking her way up to the castle every single night to share a bed with him. But that is as far as it goes, as The King cannot publicly share his affection for you.
You remember meeting him before he was King. Before the war.
Your mother was always quick to send bread up to the fortress, and before, the townspeople were welcomed behind the castle walls. You rode your bike high up the hill with your sack full of baked goods to give to the queen. And he always sat waiting for you, in his satin clothing with the smallest smile on his face. He was the reason you didn't mind the trip.
When he was a prince, it was much easier to get away with interacting with him. Both children, both eager to make friends, and both unknowing of the world around them. Rather, unknowing of the two separate worlds you were living in.
When the war broke out and the fortress walls were sealed from the general public, you were effectively separated from him. It wasn't until you were nearing 20 years old when you saw him again, declaring victory as he rode his horse through town. His face bloodied and bruised, and a scar cut deeply over his eye. His victory run stopped abruptly when he saw you, standing just as you would when the two of you were children, with flour on your nose and your hand covering the gasp threatening to escape from your lips.
He was declared King shortly afterward. His mother and former queen becoming far too weakened by the stresses of the war to continue ruling the people. By then you had accepted the defeat of never seeing him again.
That is, until a handmade tea cloth holding together two single roses appeared on the doorstep of the bakery, with a note containing a simple message.
Meet me under the pear tree where you used to sing for me. I'll be waiting.
Your heart raced the entire time you walked up the hill, until you finally made it to the top to see his silhouette in the moonlight. As you approached, he looked over his shoulder and the same small smile from before returned.
"My King." you whispered nervously, bowing. Before you are able to complete the bow, he rested a hand on your shoulder and raised you up.
"Don't do that," he whispered back, "just call me by my name. I am not your King. I am your equal."
Again, your heart raced as your lips parted to say, "Of course, Yoongi."
You shake your head of the memories as you approach Yoongi's door. The usual giddiness that follows you has been lacking lately, your anxiety becoming more and more prevalent the longer that you realize that nothing is going to change. Despite your memories and how much you love Yoongi, you do not want to be his secret forever. You have a life to live. You may want children someday, you may want to be able to cook for him in his own home or even tell your mother that you're seeing him. You know that it's not realistic, but it hurts nonetheless.
So, the hesitancy that has taken over your excitement tonight is no longer a surprise.
Your knuckles softly tapped the familiar beat that the two of you came up with so he knew it was you. Three soft taps, a pause, and three more. You remember him giggling as he told you, "It's like my heart skipping a beat when I see you."
The door opens quickly, and Yoongi tugs you in the moment he sees you.
His hands are all over you in an instant, pushing you against the door while his lips move to trail kisses across your chest. His lips caress yours softly, soaking you in. He's always been quick and quiet in his movements, eager to taste you. Yoongi tells you he cannot live without the taste of you on his tongue.
As he darts his tongue out to lick a small stripe across your neck, he suddenly pauses.
"Are you okay?"
It's not until he says those words that you realize you haven't moved since he pulled you in. You feel yourself relax slightly under his gaze, but you can't help but feel a lump begin forming in your throat.
Yoongi raises his eyebrows in concern before pulling you close to him and leading you to the bed. "What is going on, my love?"
"I- uh," your breath comes out shaky, "Will it always be like this?"
Yoongi sighs. He doesn't ask for clarification because he knows exactly what your worries are. "I don't want it to be."
A single tear drops from your right eye, mirroring the now healed scar across Yoongi's face. Yoongi is quick to reach forward and swipe it away, his hands as rough as ever against your soft skin.
"I don't want it to be either. I don't think I can do this for much longer."
Yoongi's hands drop from around your waist, "What?"
"I don't know how much longer I can be kept a secret, Yoongi." You whisper, your face falling in your hands. Yoongi scoots away from you, and you can feel his body stiffening beside you. It makes your tears become more prevalent.
"You said that you would love me until kingdom come, _____."
You manage to tear your face out of your hands and turn towards him. His back is the straightest it has ever been, and his hands sit tense on top of his knees. It's almost jarring to see him so still, when moments ago he couldn't get his hands off of you.
"And I will," you breathe, "forever. But I have a life too!"
He seems to take your words in for a brief moment, before standing up and taking a seat across from you.
"Do you honestly think that I like having to go through this?" His voice is colder than it has ever been. You're used to him having his guard up but only when he feels someone may be outside listening to you. This is a new territory, but it had to be explored at some point.
"No, I don't think you do either. So why do we do this?"
"Because-" his voice raises slightly but he quickly regains his composure, "Do you know what would happen if the people found out I was seeing a commoner?"
You swallow, "You don't believe I have the power to be a royal."
"I won the war! If word gets out that I made a commoner my queen, you are the first person the enemy would go after should they want to regain power!"
"Oh, so this is all to protect me? Make me feel safe?" you're yelling now, but he is too. He doesn't seem to mind that others may here at this point, which the irony is not lost on you.
"Yes, exactly!"
"So what happens from here, huh? You have to marry at some point, is that when this ends? When your mother insists you find a Princess to marry? Is that when I have to go back and pretend that I never loved you? Watch you from afar, pretend like I didn't know your touch. Like I haven't felt the most intimate parts of you... Like I haven't lived and breathed just for you."
Yoongi's eyes hit the floor. You pull your knees to your chest and feel the weight of your own words rest upon your shoulders. If this is really what will happen, you can no longer do it. Love conquers all, but is it really love if it has to be hidden?
"My love..." he says after quite some time, sitting beside you on the bed. His head rests against the bed frame, "...I just want what is best for you. What makes you happiest."
"Being with you makes me happiest. If I cannot get all of you, then-"
"Then what? You don't want any of me?"
You don't respond.
"After all we've been through, you're willing to throw it all away? Because I'm trying to keep you safe?"
"I want to take the risk! If being your Queen means taking a risk then I'm willing to! I want to love you whole-heartedly, Min Yoongi." You explain, turning towards him.
He sighs softly, mirroring your position, before pulling you down to the pillow. He lays beside you, pulling you close to him. "I'll make you my queen if it means you'll be able to stay by my side."
You smile softly, "There's nowhere in the world that I am safest, than beside you."
Yoongi kisses you, gently. His lips curve into yours perfectly, like they were meant to always be there. You both to allow the kiss to become more heated, because it's nice just being with each other.
"You're right," he says, "we cannot continue hiding our love. Starting tomorrow, the kingdom will know you as my wife, my queen."
Your heart flutters, "You're not worried about the risks now?"
Yoongi's eyes widen, "I am terrified beyond belief. But I will go out of my way to make sure you will be safe. Forever."
"And I, you, Min Yoongi."
When you awake the next morning, Yoongi is already sitting up beside you. The sunlight shines into his room, and you realize this is the first time you have seen his room in this much light. It's obviously much later than you're used to staying, and Yoongi doesn't seem as panicked as you expected him to be.
"There is no way you're getting out of the castle without being seen so we have to tell Mother now. Before that happens, though, I want to make sure that you fully understand what you're signing up for."
You're rubbing the sleep from your eyes and pulling yourself up as Yoongi speaks.
"You will have people around you forever. The only place you'll get any peace is right in here. Your parents' bakery will be very successful seeing as their daughter is now a queen. If something happens to me, you will have to run the kingdom."
Blinking, you finally speak, "What?"
"If I die," Yoongi reiterates, "You will have to-"
Loud knocking rings through his room, causing the panic you expected to see from Yoongi to finally come up. "No time now, just act calm."
Yoongi rushes towards his door, his clothing flowing behind him. He opens it slightly, still leaving you blocked from view.
"Your majesty, I've brought you your breakfast." you hear softly.
Yoongi glances back towards you, before opening the door slightly wider. "I appreciate it, I am going to need a second bowl though."
The servant, an older woman with graying hair, meets eyes with you. Her eyes widen, "O- oh yes sir! I'll be back in just a moment for you and your missus."
Yoongi turns back to you after watching her scurry away with a smile on his face. He leaves the door open now, carrying the tray towards the bed and placing it in front of you. It's pork, a meat that you rarely ate, with porridge and a tall glass of water. You look up to him, feeling his hand tap your chin. "Eat up, my love."
You pick up the spoon and begin eating the porridge. It's delicious, better than anything you've ever eaten before in your life.
Yoongi sits across from you and picks up a piece of pork with his fingers, chewing on it slowly. "I will give it approximately 5 minutes before my mother is in here, by the way."
"What?!" you say, your mouth full of porridge. You instantly stand, rushing over to the mirror in the corner of the room and begin attempting to tame your hair. You've met the woman before, years ago, when you and Yoongi were both children. She liked you then, but how much will she like you now that you are going to be throwing her son to the wind?
"Baby," Yoongi stands behind you, grabbing your hands and holding them to your side, "You look fine. Everything will be okay."
"You're awfully calm for someone who didn't even think this was a possibility less than 12 hours ago."
"Because I thought it over last night. My mother will just have to deal with it. I am 30 years old, she has no say over who I marry, or who I taste." he turns your chin to him and captures your lips with his again. You can feel him pressing into your backside while his tongue dances across your bottom lip.
As you feel the outline of his erection press harder onto your ass, you moan into his mouth. He's very receptive to how vocal you are, but before it can go any further, footsteps approach his doorway.
He quickly pulls away and stands in front of you, watching as his mother enters the room carrying a second tray of porridge.
She's gorgeous, wearing pink and blue with her hair done up perfectly. She turns towards the two of you with a smile, "Yoongi, tell me who is behind you."
Yoongi steps to the side but keeps his arm in front of you.
His mother's eyes begin to water, "_____, are you seeing my son?"
"Y- you remember me?" Yoongi tenses beside you as you speak.
"Of course I do, you were the reason I couldn't get my son to come back home when you were children. I'd ask him where he was going and he would always say, 'Mom, I'm going to see my girlfriend.' And now here you are, finally in front of me." She walks forward and pushes Yoongi's arm out of the way, bringing you in for a tight hug.
"I was wondering when Yoongi would finally bring you home. It's been too long."
"W- we were scared." You respond, your voice muffled by her shoulder.
"Scared of what?" She pulls away, flattening your hair and inspecting your face with eyes of worry.
Yoongi moves beside you again, "I was scared that you wouldn't accept her, and that the enemy may come back and get her should I go public with her."
"Nonsense," she lays a smack on Yoongi's shoulder, "_____ will be protected. Nobody deserves their love to be hidden."
~*~*~
After a full day of speaking with Yoongi's mother and explaining how long the two of you kept everything hidden, you were finally alone with Yoongi again.
He caressed your back softly in the bathtub, your body warm against his while he gently ran his fingers through your hair.
"I'm glad your mother likes me."
"We just spent the whole day with her, do we have to keep talking about her?" Yoongi whines, water splashing as he throws his head back in a frustrated groan.
"Awe, does my poor baby need attention?" You turn around in the tub, facing Yoongi. His chest heaves as he juts his bottom lip out, "I do need attention."
"Oh you do? What do you need from me?"
"Can we finish what we started this morning?" Yoongi whispers, flexing his hips. His cock twitches beneath the water, causing you to reach forward and grip the base.
Your smile is almost sinister, while you begin jerking him off. He's tense immediately, his head tossed back and moans leaving his mouth. "You must have been hard all day, my poor baby. I bet you wanted to pull me away and use my mouth, huh?"
"Y-yes," Yoongi breathes, "I wanted you so bad."
"Mm," your hand moves faster, "couldn't wait to use me as your queen for the first time."
"P- please," his moans turn to whines, "fuck me, my love."
Your hand lowers and begins to dance across his ass, spreading his legs and allowing your fingers to brush against his hole. He whimpers the moment your finger stops, pressing into him softly.
"So good," your hand moves up and down his cock as your finger begins curl and thrust to brush against his G-spot, "Does my King like letting go with me?"
Yoongi nods, "Faster please."
Your hands quicken their pace as Yoongi reaches forward and pulls you forward, kissing you hard. He pulls back and rests his forehead against yours, his mouth agape while his orgasm approaches.
"Cum, my King. Cum for me."
Yoongi moans as he releases, his hole tightening around your finger. His chest heaves as he pulls you to him.
"You're so good to me. I'm excited to spend the rest of our lives together."
You grin against his chest, pressing light kisses across him.
"Let's get out of the bath and have round two in the bed?" You suggest, your thumb gently massaging above his collarbone. Yoongi smiles, "Does my Queen want her turn?"
Biting your lip, you murmur, "Yes please."
#min yoongi#bts#yoongi x reader#min yoongi x reader#yoongi x reader smut#min yoongi x reader au#bts x reader#bts x reader smut#bts imagines#bts smut#bts au
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venus in furs
𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: He’s always imagined you like this in his dreams, he thinks. Naked, dressed in rubies as red as the wine in your silver chalice, blood like pomegranate juice dripping from your lips, staining your mouth to match the red of your blood that colors his own.
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𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: Astarion/Reader
𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: smut, 18+ only
𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 6.1k
𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: Ascended Astarion, dom Astarion, dom/sub, vaginal fingering, finger sucking, blowjobs, slight exhibitionism, slight degradation, guided masturbation, vaginal sex
𝑎/𝑛: back with another one, friends. I didn't ever think I would really write ascended Astarion, but what can I say?? I hope you all like this one, I definitely enjoyed writing it and getting out of my comfort zone a little bit! Let me know what you think! Thank you so much for reading!
MDNI, 18+ CONTENT
ao3 here
masterlist
The air of the palace is cold against your exposed skin as you walk through the halls you now own, wearing nothing but an ermine cloak and glittering jewels, your stride confident amidst the darkened hallways.
These halls were once filled with the smell of decay and the leftover dust of ages past, a distasteful reminder of the horrors that had occurred here over centuries. You had made sure upon Astarion’s ascension to rip out as much of the place as you could, making decisions with that of an aesthete’s touch, ideals of what a grand palace should look like for your lover.
Dull red carpets were hastily replaced with elegant emerald green, every oppressive drapery torn away from their rods and transformed instead into flowing brocaded silks, old and rotted furniture sent to be thrown into the river or to burn, it mattered not which end it met. Such matters of what happened to the furniture were beneath you.
You had much loftier concerns to deal with, now.
After all, what use was being His Dark Consort, if not to wile away your now infinite hours doing whatever you so wished, consequences be damned?
You stride towards the ballroom where two thrones of gleaming gold sit side by side on a newly raised dais, not caring whether the servants you passed noticed your state of dishabille. You knew they would turn their eyes from you, they would never dare to look upon you in such a way without his express permission.
At last, you make your way to your destination; chandeliers dimly lit with tapers of dripping wax hang from the ceiling, illuminating the richly woven tapestries decorating the walls. It was a shame you still couldn’t manage to get all of the blood stains out of the floorboards from the battle with those dreadful wolves, but you supposed there were worse trophies than those of your victories. You were content to let them serve as a reminder to all those who entered this place of who it was that had eventually won the battle.
A quick step up onto the dais has you exactly where you want to be, your eyes flitting between the twin thrones, resplendent with whorls of gold crafted into scenes of animals at hunt, the seats plush with dark velvet. With naught but a minute glance towards your own throne, you instead bring your gaze upon that of Astarion’s.
You settle into your lover’s throne and arrange your cloak around you, the blood red of the velvet sliding against your curves as you move to recline, the contrast stark against the milky fur of the oversized collar, dark dots smattered across the expanse of alabaster like drops of ink against a page.
The jewels around your neck and in your ears shift with every movement of your body, the pear-shaped ruby of your necklace—practically the size of your palm—encrusted with crystal clear diamonds heavy as it rests upon your collarbone.
You wait for Astarion to find you, just like this, your body on display for him in the way you know he so likes. Soft curls of anticipation settle deep within your stomach, embers of pleasure eager to transform into a wildfire.
Astarion, thankfully, does not keep you waiting long, his muted footfalls upon the covered floors catch upon your ears soon after taking your desired place. The knowledge he is finally here and so close has you sitting up slightly straighter.
You know he will be able smell the scent of you, the heady aroma of your slow growing excitement will lead him right to where you lay in wait for him. You arrange yourself for one moment more on the throne, a siren’s smile on your face as you await the presence of your lover.
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The last thing Astarion expects to see when he walks into the ballroom is you, lounging indolently on his throne of all places, wearing nothing but the dark red of an ermine cloak and dripping in jewels.
He has to give you credit, he supposes; when he walked in from the city after a series of decidedly droll meetings with decidedly useless patriars, finding you waiting for him like a little treat dying to be tasted did not make his list.
How very lucky you are, it seems, that when he scented your arousal on the stairs he decided instead to investigate rather than moving on to whatever work awaits him in his office.
You had always liked playing these kinds of games, your subtle machinations something he was always happy to bear witness to with a smile on his face.
His perfect, pretty Dark Consort and her quaint little schemes.
“And what do we have here?” Astarion arches a brow as he takes in the sight of you.
His eyes trace your frame, from the white and black of the fur trim that rests against your naked flesh, hiding your peaked nipples from sight as your crossed legs obscure the telltale wetness he knows is forming between your thighs.
You flutter your lashes prettily at his perusal of your body, a coquettish tilt of your head at his interest.
With predatory intent, Astarion makes a slow circle around his throne with inhuman grace, his eyes never leaving you. You feel the intensity of his gaze against your skin, your hair, your lips—every part of you on display for him and him only.
He’s always imagined you like this in his dreams, he thinks. Naked, dressed in rubies as red as the wine in your silver chalice, blood like pomegranate juice dripping from your lips, staining your mouth to match the red of your blood that colors his own.
He completes his circle and his eyes meet your own, his glowing claret gaze darkening and you know with certainty that he is pleased at your offering for him.
“Won’t you bend the knee for me, my Lord?” You feign innocence in your question, eyes roving greedily over his clothed body, taking in the fine tailoring of his intricately embroidered velvet doublet, the skin-tight fit of the finest leather pants highlighting the beginnings of his erection.
“Is that what you would like, dearest?” His eyes bore into your own, a mocking smile alighting his plush lips at such a request.
“It’s the least you can do, don’t you think? To be greeted with such a gift like myself?” Your thighs open for him as you recline further into the velvet, your wetness glistening in the dim candlelight.
“How presumptuous of you, my sweet Consort.” despite his words, a spike of heat works its way through your body at the sight of his knees moving smoothly to the floor in front of the throne you have now made your own.
Your tongue darts out to wet your lips absentmindedly as he comes to settle his chest between your open thighs, a wicked smile forming on his lips.
Astarion doesn’t miss the sight of your tongue brushing against your lips, and he can’t help but think of other things that your mouth is capable of. He runs his hands up and down the outside of your thighs with surprising delicacy as his eyes move to your dewy center, now exposed to him.
“I do hope you haven’t been waiting long, pet.” His hands make their way to your waist, thumbs brushing teasing patterns against your skin as he leans in to press a kiss to the softness of your lower belly, breath catching in your throat at the closeness of his lips.
You have but a moment to relish the feeling, the hands at your waist moving to yank you out of the throne upon which you sit. You quickly find yourself chest to chest with your lover, your exposed center pressing against the growing hardness still hidden behind tied leather for mere seconds before your world is turned once more; Astarion moving you onto your knees as you now face the seat of the throne you had just occupied, a spot of your own wetness darkening the velvet cushion as your ribcage presses hard against the golden frame of the throne.
A hand makes its way from your waist to clasp against your throat, the feeling of his fingers pressing in on your windpipe exquisite.
“Because you’ll have to wait a little longer, I’m afraid.” His words fall hot against your ear as he speaks, lips brushing against the tender skin as your face falls at the thought of being denied what you had been so sure he would give you, a small noise of discontent falling from your rouged lips.
You feel the hand still resting on your waist move up to unclasp the fur cloak from your throat, the heavy fabric falling to the floor behind you with a muted thud before Astarion moves to grab and throw it aside. He quickly presses close, eager to replace the lost warmth as his hand makes it way back south, the embroidery of his doublet pressing against your exposed back, every caress of the threads like fire against your skin.
The hand around you neck tightens infinitesimally, the additional pressure drawing a gasp from your lips as his other hand continues making it way lower, sweeping through the curls at the apex of your thighs before coming to cup at your dripping wetness.
“I don’t take orders from you, lover, and it would do for you to remember that.” His fingers slide through your folds, drawing a noise from both of your lips at the feeling.
“Gods, look at you. So desperate already, and I’ve barely touched you.” His words are a whisper against your neck, reverent despite his prior condemnation. Fingers trace at your entrance, their touch light and teasing as he continues his scolding.
“What a little tyrant you’ve become. Daring to sit in my throne and to make such demands of me.” His tone is mocking now as he presses those two fingers at your entrance, pushing in to the knuckle, leaving you no time to acclimate to the fullness. A whine falls from your lips as his fingers move deep, eyes falling shut and head lolling forwards the hand still squeezing lightly at your throat.
Astarion allows the gesture, his hand softening its hold to instead stroke at the graceful column of you neck as your head falls back to rest upon his velvet draped shoulder.
The fingers inside you find that spot deep inside, curling to press into it with relentless intent. Moans fall from your lips as his fingers fuck into your pussy, your wetness aiding their slide in and out of your wanting body.
“Look at how easily you cry for me, my sweet.” His words spur you on, your hips riding his hand as his fingers find their rhythm deep inside you for but a moment before he mercilessly pulls them from of your body.
Astarion’s fingers leave you empty, a whimper filling the air as he drags the hand that had been pleasuring you up your body, leaving a trail of slick across the heated skin of your stomach to the place in between your breasts.
His wet fingers leave your body to hover in front of you, your head coming up off his shoulder.
Astarion’s pulls his fingers apart, shining strings of your arousal clinging between the digits. The sight of it has the both of you entranced as Astarion slowly brings those fingers together again and presses them against your lips.
“Open.” The command is clear in his voice, and you open your mouth without a second thought.
He settles the fingers on your tongue and you obediently close your mouth around them and suck at your own wetness coating the digits.
“Such a good girl, barely having to be told what to do,” His praise is like velvet running across your skin as you hollow your cheeks around the digits in your mouth, your essence heavy on your tongue.
“You taste divine, don’t you think?” You are powerless but to nod in agreement, empty core clenching at the honey dripping from his words.
The taste of yourself in your own mouth like this is downright lewd and you know without a doubt that if the heart that sits in your chest could beat once more that your face would be flushed as red as the roses you now choose to decorate with.
You can feel Astarion’s hardness through his pants, pressing into you from his place behind you, cock twitching with every movement of your tongue. His fingers make their way out of your mouth before reaching down to tweak at a hardened nipple, your saliva coating his digits as they rub circles around the nub.
“Do me a favor, darling, and stay on those knees of yours.” Astarion’s lips brush against the delicate skin of your ear once more, his words a seductive whisper as he rises behind you.
You look over your shoulder as he stands at his full height, your face at eye level with the hard bulge still hidden behind leather. A corner of your mouth tilts upwards as you turn on your knees to face him fully, hands coming up to rest on his upper thighs as you look up into his eyes.
Your fingers rub the leather covering his strong legs, head moving forward to rest lightly against his covered erection.
The sight of you down on your knees is that of sin incarnate, Astarion’s breath hitching slightly before that same wicked smile creeps back onto his features.
“May I, my Lord?” Your fingertips inch upwards with your words, playing with the waistband of his pants.
“It’s the least you can do, don’t you think?” He uses your earlier words against you tauntingly, his haughty smirk deepening at the devilish raise of your brows.
You see fit not to answer him with words, instead letting your hands do the talking as they make their way to the laces covering his erection. With several quick motions of your fingers the laces fall open and you free his aching length, placing a kiss to the tip.
Astarion groans at that first brush of your lips against him, hips jumping at the touch as his cock bobs in response.
You mouth at the crown, reverent brushes of your tongue moving on the soft skin of his shaft have his head falling back with a sigh. Astarion brings his eyes back to your form on the floor beneath him, knees resting on the ground as your nipples pebble in the chilled air, lips and tongue working him with the motions you know he loves.
You lick a stripe up a vein on his cock before taking his heat inside your mouth, cheeks hollowing against him as you suck. The action has him moaning, your lips and tongue moving to work him as you slowly begin to bob your head.
You continue your ministrations, sucking him into your mouth as your hand comes to help you touch what you can’t easily reach with your mouth, pumping him at the base as your tongue caresses the crown of his cock.
The noises Astarion makes is like music to your ears, the sound of his carnal moans only serving to drive you to move your mouth faster and deeper.
“You can take me harder, can’t you?” His words are uncharacteristically breathless as his fingers card through your hair, gathering strands into a makeshift ponytail in his fist as his other hand brushes against the high point of your cheek.
You nod your head as much as you can with your lips wrapped around his cock, humming in confirmation as your eyes look up to meet his own gaze, glassy with lust.
Astarion pumps his hips at your blessing, moving his cock in and out of your mouth with slow motions as your tongue brushes against him. Your lips open wider to accommodate him, hand on his thigh squeezing in encouragement.
Pleasure rushes to your core as Astarion’s hand fists harder in your hair, his hips moving faster now as he sets his pace, your moans around his cock spurring him on as he moves closer to your throat, eyes watering involuntarily with each thrust as he nears the back of your mouth.
He hisses at the pleasure, at the sight of you letting him fuck your mouth however he pleases as your eyes flash upwards to meet his own, the beginnings of tears dusting your lashes as he pushes deeper into your warm mouth.
Few things compare to the knowledge that Astarion is under your control like this, and you know he won’t last long as you breathe in through your nose, relaxing your throat for him to press as deep as he wants with a flutter of your lashes, stray teardrops falling onto your cheeks as you can only imagine the thoughts floating through his pleasure-addled mind.
As Astarion looks down upon your form below him, taking him so very well, he can’t help but think that the deepest and darkest parts of him covet you like this always. Lips wrapped tight around his cock, unable to think of nothing but him as he fucks your mouth, your lips sealed around his cock.
The beautiful blush of your lips, the crystal of your tears, the claret of your blood.
All for him and him only.
He comes on your tongue with the thought, his spend going down your throat in hot, salty spurts. You swallow him greedily, intent on not wasting a drop as the hands in your hair tighten as Astarion’s hips buck into your mouth with abandon as you drink down his seed.
With a sigh the hand in your hair loosens as Astarion comes down from his high, your mouth still moving over his softening cock. You slowly pull off him, tongue licking at him as you go, collecting the remnants of his come off him before you let his length fall from your lips.
With one last swallow, you look up at him from your place on your knees, licking at a stray drop of his come that escapes your mouth. Astarion brushes his thumb against your closed lips, his eyes still hot with lust as your tongue darts out to lick at the fingertip.
With a nod of his head, Astarion gestures to your cloak where it lays long forgotten against the cold floors. With a coy smirk up at him, you bring your hands to the floor and crawl over towards the soft velvet.
Astarion follows your every sway of your body as you move, and when you finally lay yourself down onto the cloak, back resting against the lush material, he follows. He wastes no time to lower himself above you, hovering, as he takes in the vision of you resting beneath him.
His Dark Consort. His blasphemous Queen.
He would do anything for you.
His eyes rove your naked form, burning the memory of the way the deep crimson of the cape highlights the color of your skin, the open yearning in your expression and complete submission to him into his mind to last the entirety of his eternal life.
Astarion finally touches your body, no longer satisfied with a simple gaze, a hand brushing back your hair from your face before making its way down your body. You let your legs fall open for him to continue his exploration, eagerly exposing your wanting center to him as he bends his head down, giving an experimental lick up your slit, collecting your wetness on his tongue.
“Do you want to come, my love?” You nod your head, a whine escaping at the promise in his voice.
“Then I want you to make yourself come while I watch.” He releases your legs, moving to stand before making his way to his throne.
He sits down with the grace of a king, his gaze expectant on your naked body as you part your legs for him once more.
His words are unexpected but you waste no time, not willing to wait lest he decide to abandon your pleasure all together. A hand skates its way down your body, bypassing your aching breasts to go straight to your clit. You rub at your pearl with delicate fingers, your motions second nature as you let yourself fall headfirst into the feeling of pleasure as Astarion watches you from his place on his throne, his cock already hard again.
Your eyes fall shut as you continue your ministrations, head falling to the side as your pleasure drives higher and higher with every motion of your fingers.
“Eyes on me, darling.” His words are hard, the command clear in his voice has your eyes opening fast and landing back on his form.
You watch Astarion where he sits, taking in the sight of him as your fingers continue drawing circles around your clit. He reclines back in his throne, a hand drawing lazy touches up and down his cock as his own eyes are fixated on your fingers at your most intimate area.
With a breath your hand leaves your clit, moving further down to touch at your weeping entrance.
If he wants a show, you will gladly give him one.
Without waiting, you plunge your fingers into yourself, pushing them as deep as you can. Your own are nothing compared to the length and elegance of his own, but they will have to do for now. You fuck yourself on your fingers, quickly adding a third in an attempt to recreate the feeling of Astarion’s own.
Your fingers shine with your wetness, Astarion groaning at the sight of you fucking yourself like this, knowing you won’t last much longer at the rate you are going.
“Slow down, darling,” A smirk plays at his lips as he notes the shaking of your thighs.
“You can’t come until I say so, and I’m not ready for this little performance to be over quite yet.” You whine at his command, but slow your fingers obediently, moving them inside you at a slower pace now.
Your fingers work diligently as your eyes don’t leave Astarion’s from where he sits some feet away. His attention on you only serve to drive you higher, those crimson eyes never leaving you.
Your legs widen so Astarion can better see your motions as your other hand comes up to palm at your breasts, fingers still moving in an easy rhythm that drives your higher and higher with every pass.
You know that he loves to see and watch you like this, and there is nothing you love more than leaning into that yearning, eager to let his dominance wash over you.
“A-Astarion, I can’t hold off much longer.” It takes effort to keep your eyes on him, trying to push off your orgasm as long as possible, thighs shaking once more with impending release.
“Let go, my love.” His permission feels like a balm, hand at your chest coming down to rub at your clit as the fingers inside you speed up their thrusts, intent to bring yourself to orgasm as fast as you can get there.
You had waited so long to finally be allowed to come, to get the pleasure you desired and deserved, and while you wish that it was Astarion’s hands instead of your own, you supposed beggars could not be choosers.
Your orgasm hits, limbs seizing and hips bucking against your fingers, head thrown back as a moan leaves your painted lips, back bowing with pleasure.
“Beautiful.” Astarion murmurs the words low, barely audible over your own moans as you come on your fingers, orgasm washing over you as you writhe on the floor in front of him.
Your body relaxes in the wake of your release, limbs loose against the cloak on the floor. You ease your fingers out of yourself with a slight wince, the digits soaked with your own come. You lay there for a moment, your senses coming back to you as your eyes finally open and glance back at your lover.
“Come to me.” His words are expectant, and you force yourself to rise despite the pleasant exhaustion weighing down your limbs, walking to the throne and standing in between his knees as he spreads them to make room for you.
Astarion’s hand reaches out to grab your wrist, bringing the fingers that had filled your core to his own mouth before he wraps his mouth around them.
He licks at your come, tongue sliding against your fingers in a bid to collect all of your spend, intent on letting none go to waste. The feeling of his tongue on your fingers drives a wedge of heat right back to the spot between your legs, Astarion’s eyes never leaving your face as his tongue glides up and down your fingertips.
With one last motion, he sucks hard on your fingers before pulling his mouth away from your hand.
“Sit.” The command is simple as his hands grab at your waist, pulling you to him.
Your knees land on either side of his hips, his cock brushing up against your empty core as Astarion’s lips finds your own.
His kiss is demanding, passion and control combined into a fiery thing that you answer with the same emotion, mouth opening to his tongue as it sweeps inside to taste.
You’re breathless when Astarion breaks this kiss, his lips moving to press kisses against your jaw.
“Turn around and face the doors, darling.” His smile is absolutely deviant as you obey his words without a second thought, excitement building at whatever he has in store for you.
Your body twists over his own, settling onto his lap as your bare back rests against his velvet doublet. His length presses against your slit like this, your come slicking the shaft. Astarion’s hands caress the curve of your waist as you lean back into him, your head turning to brush your lips over the skin of his neck in a light kiss.
The hands on your waist move further down your sides and over your legs, stopping at your knees to grip underneath each, lifting them up and over the armrests of the throne. Your breath catches in your throat at the slight burn in your thighs as your legs stretch open, every inch of your aching cunt on full display.
He bares you entirely like this, anyone who dares to walk by the open doors and look inside would see every bit of you. It’s a small blessing, you think, that any servants have long made themselves scarce once they realized the debauchery taking place.
“Such a good girl you are, darling, keeping yourself open for me like this.” The hands holding your legs move up to stroke at your thighs, before one wanders higher towards your center. Astarion drags his fingers through your wetness, fingers spreading your folds and collecting the wetness on his fingertips as he circles your clit.
His lips find the tender skin behind your ear at the moment two fingers push inside you, sliding in knuckle deep before pulling back out again.
“You put on such a good show for me, darling. I think you deserve a reward.” He kisses your neck, those fingers pushing in once more to massage at your inner walls.
Astarion is intent on building you back up to a frenzy, his years of knowledge of your body to press and rub against everywhere he knows will only bring you higher.
He will always worship you, you who helped him rise to this new height, assisting so selflessly in handing him such power. It was the least he could do, to keep and covet you so tightly you could never want or dream of anything less than an eternity by his side.
The old Astarion could never care for you the way he does now, could never gift you such unimaginable riches—gowns of the finest silks and tulles, an endless supply of silvers and golds, jewels of unbelievable value.
No, he couldn’t offer you even a fraction of what he can now. His poor excuse for companionship was all that he had to offer you back then.
You deserved better, and better was what he would give you.
“You’re a vision like this, darling, held open for me while I make you come.” He mouths at the skin of your neck, never slowing in his movements.
His fingers hook inside of you, pressing against your g-spot with relentless efficiency, your cries spurring on his motions. You can hear the sounds of your wetness with his every motion, can feel yourself dripping onto the soft leather of his covered thighs beneath you.
Your orgasm hits you without warning, that familiar warmth coursing through your veins Astarion’s fingers still press on the softness of your walls as your cunt constricts around them. You writhe in his lap, hips riding his hand as he presses kisses to your neck as his fingers continue their work. You whine at the sensations, body moving closer towards overstimulation after reaching your peak twice in such a short time.
Astarion grants you a moment to recover as his fingers slide out of you, hands instead moving to bring your legs down from their place over the chair as you pant listlessly against his chest, body still shaking from the pleasure he had given you.
“Please, fuck me.” Your words carry a certain softness in their desperation that has Astarion’s cock bobbing against your entrance once more as you move onto your knees above him, looking back over your shoulder to see him grabbing his cock as he positions it at your entrance.
You lower down eagerly to take him inside you in a smooth glide, ignoring the slight twinge of overstimulation as you press all the way down until your hips meet, a hiss leaving his mouth at the feeling of your warmth finally wrapped around him.
You moans fill the air together, Astarion’s hands finding your waist as you glide yourself up and down his cock, taking him deep with every motion downwards, hips grinding into his own when he bottoms out. His lips caress the skin of your spine and neck, one hand on your hip helping you move up and down him, the other buried in your hair, keeping it out of the way of his roaming lips.
Astarion lets you move above him at your own pace, moaning into your skin as you work yourself on him, your hips undulating above him in a seductive dance as you take him deep on every slide down before gliding back up, barely keeping the head of him inside before you begin again.
Astarion’s grip on your hip tightens as he begins to guide you in harder motions that have you picking up speed, his fingers digging into your skin as the lips on your neck switch from kisses to light nips of his fangs.
“Harder, Astarion.” Your words come out on uneven breaths as he thrusts deep, cries of pleasure falling from you open lips as he takes control.
“Off, darling.” He pants, other hand moving to join the one at your hip as he moves you off his cock, your wetness coating it.
On unsteady legs you move to stand by the throne as Astarion gets up behind you, his hands never leaving your body as he quickly directs you back. Your knees touch soft velvet as you move to kneel on the seat, hands grasping for purchase on the golden whorls as Astarion sheathes himself back inside you, hips sliding home on the first thrust.
The carved gold bites into your palms as you hold on, legs widening for him to fuck you harder as his hands find their way to hold onto your hips, pulling your body back against his own as he fucks you with little delicacy.
Gone is the easy, sensuous pace of earlier, replaced by your mutual desperation for something harder. His cock is impossibly deep like this, hitting what feels like every nerve ending inside you with the pump of his hips.
A hand grips your hair and pulls your head back roughly as his teeth nip at your earlobe.
“Is this what you wished for, my dear?” He whispers the words, hips snapping into yours. “To be fucked like a whore? On my throne, like this?”
You moan at his words, pussy clenching hard on his cock as his skin slaps into your own, the sound echoing against the elegantly carved wood ceiling.
“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” He chuckles into your ear as you gasp at a particularly sharp thrust, his mouth licking a stripe up your neck.
You deign not to answer him, knowing your body tells him everything he needs to know about that particular line of questioning.
His cock hits a particularly deep spot inside you, and you cry out at the sensation, pain and pleasure mixing headily in your veins. Your hands clutch harder onto the throne under you in an attempt to center yourself, efforts in vain as Astarion continues to fuck into that same spot near your cervix.
Your eyes roll back at the feeling of him so deep, wanton moans falling from your lips with abandon as pleasure streaks through body, burning brighter than the sun.
“Will you bleed for me, sweet thing?” The words aren’t quite a question, more hypothetical in nature. You know he will take, and you are always willing to give to him, even after all these years. You nod your head regardless, as best you can with Astarion’s fingers still gripping in your hair, never mind his hard thrusts in and out of your body.
His lips fall against your neck, nose nudging against the skin there as his breath is hot where his lips caress the skin behind your ear. The hand in your hair loosens, allowing you to move your head further to side, baring more skin to his searching mouth in invitation.
He bites down, the fragile skin of your neck breaking like it has a thousand times over, your blood dripping down in rivulets as Astarion drinks you in. Your blood stains the diamonds and rubies around your neck, facets dancing with every push of Astarion’s hips against your own in the dim light.
Every suck of Astarion’s mouth against your neck brings you closer, cries falling as you both soar higher and higher towards your peak. His hips continue to move, never slowing in their rhythm as he drinks, blood continuing to drip down over the peak of your breasts before falling onto the gilded throne beneath you.
All it takes is a few more thrusts from Astarion before you come apart, body bucking against his own as he continues to suck at the flesh of your neck, every pull from his mouth bringing the pleasure higher as you crest wave after wave of our climax, white hot heat rushing over your senses. He works you through your orgasm, never slowing his pace as he fucks you through the height of it, allowing you to luxuriate in the euphoria.
Astarion follows shortly after you, the feeling of your cunt clenching hard against his own heat divine as he loses the final threads of his control. His hips press tight against your own as he empties himself inside of you with unrestrained moans as he extricates his fangs from your neck to press his brow against your shoulder, tongue licking at the spilled blood that runs down your body.
Astarion stays inside you, his cock softening as his come leaks from your joined bodies down onto the skin of your thighs, pressing kisses to your shoulder as your breathing slowly evens out.
Finally he pulls himself from your center, helping you off the throne as he bends down to grab your discarded cape from the floor nearby. He settles it back around your shoulders as you lean against him, looking up into his eyes.
“What ever are we to do with you, darling?” He sighs the words in mock distress, a finger coming to lift your chin up towards him as he smirks.
“I suppose maybe I need to be better disciplined?” Your smile answers his own, voice coy as you toy with a button on his doublet.
“Then lead the way, pet, there’s still much I can teach you.” Your answering smirk is all the permission required as Astarion leads you to the bedroom, intent to make good on his promise before the night is done.
#astarion#astarion bg3#astarion x f!reader#astarion x f!tav#astarion x you#astarion x tav#astarion x reader#ascended astarion#ascended astarion x reader#ascended astarion x tav#my writing
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Day 9 Of Kinktober
Hair pulling.
Kaz Brekker x Fem!Reader. 18+ Drabble
Ask: Can i request a kaz brekker x long hair reader, with hair pulling (like he likes that she has long hair and had been wondering how would it feel to pull it) i imagine they've been dating for a while
Warning: Hair pulling, wh*re calling, dominant kaz
Kaz hated to be distracted by the plaguing thoughts of you throughout his day to day. He often finds himself thinking of your laugh or that pretty smile you flashed him, while others it was the thought of bending you over a table and having his way with you. He hated it.
Saints, he hated how much he wanted you. No matter how much he has of you it’s never enough to fill his hunger. As Kaz thrusted into you at night he’d wonder what it was like to pull your hair and tug you around. When your on your knees and sucking his cock how it would feel to grabbed a fist full and pull you up. Or, to use your hair as handles to pull you back into him.
It was enough to make him feral and pent up from thinking about handling you like a doll for his use. You had such beautiful long hair that he loved, even without the sexual thoughts.
You however knew kaz from years of knowing him and breaking him open to get inside, so you knew when he wanted something. You knew what made him tick, what he hated and everything— So you knew he wanted something while your both tangled up in the sheets.
“Hmm- What’s wrong?” You ask as you keep bouncing on his lap as your eyes roll back. “You’ve been wanting to ask me something for a while.” You purred and huffed a moan.
Kaz had his eyes on you, he couldn’t take pull his eyes away, he just grabbed ahold of your hips and stopped your movements. Which caused a whine from you. “I’ve been wanting to try something…”
You hummed and opened your eyes to pear at the man, moving your hands back around his neck you play with his hair. “You can tell me.” Lowing your head into his neck you bite his ear softly, “Tell me what I can do for you.” His chest bubbles up and his grip got tighter from the fear of what he was going to say. Dirty hands never got nervous but you made him crumple into pieces. So he sighed and decided to come clean of a wish he wanted so badly to come true.
“I want to pull your hair. I want to pull you around and feel the pain as I fuck you. I haven’t stop thinking about it,” he moved you again on his cock and rocked into you while you let out a surprised moan. He smirked and kept up his actions.
You smile and lean back up to get a better angle of him inside of you and move your hips harder, “Then do it, pull my hair.” You push your hair back and lean your head back for easy access, “be as rough as you want.” A rush of excitement went to your cunt as you cliched around him.
Kaz didn’t waste anytime with it and twisted his fingers around your hair and pulled your head back. The pain of the pull and stinging made your cunt tighten around him and your eyes roll back. This sparked something inside of him and he railed up into you with more force then before.
“You like that? You look so pretty like this, a needy whore to please, to feel pain from me.” You place your hands on his chest for support and let him have his way with you.
Kaz flipped you over on the mattress and stood on his knees and made you lean on all fours, “Take it- You’ll take it.” He reached back up and pulled your hair and slammed into at the same time. You cried out and leaned as far up as you could from his hold, your tongue almost falling from your mouth. You could feel your juices coating his thighs and the sounds you made when he fucked you.
“Your heads going to hurt all the time from the hairs being pulled,” you could tell this type of power was getting to him, “but you’ll fucking enjoy it.”
You wondered what else he wants to try.
#kaz brekker x reader#kaz brekker#kaz brekker smut#kaz brekker x reader smut#shadow and bone x reader smut#shadow and bone smut#kinktober 2023#kinktober#smut
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The Sacrifice (part 1) | Elijah Mikaelson
Summary: You sacrifice yourself to save your boyfriend and their family. (Elijah Mikaelson fanfic)
TW: violence, loss of loved one, blood, emotional damage.
idk if it makes sense to you but just let my imaginations go wild😍
DO NOT REPOST OR TRANSLATE MY WORK!!
word count: 2618
Part 2
taglist request
Elijah covered Gia's body and stood up. You stood by him and looked sorrowfully at Gia's body. You didn't know much about her but she didn't deserve to die because of Klaus. Klaus was so angry and killing Gia was his revenge.
"I'm so sorry about Gia, if I had been here she wouldn't have died" You told you boyfriend.
"That's alright, nothing could have stopped Klaus from killing her." Elijah hugged you from your side and kissed your cheek and turned to camille, who had just drank blood to heal herself.
"are you ok?" you asked in concern and she nodded in response.
"now that you're healed, what did you mean by Klaus had a plan? we had a plan, a plan he has mercilessly destroyed!" Elijah exclaimed in anger. You caressed his back and he calmed down.
"our plan wouldn't have worked elijah" Camille spoke up and both of you looked at her with confusion.
"when Klaus got into my head, he said your plan would fail so he had to enact one of his own"
"and what's this plan of his?" you asked her.
"he has to get her to link to him" Camille told you both and you gasped.
"My brother wishes to bind himself to our enemy? she'll be virtually indestructible." Elijah said as he separated from you and walked closer to her.
"he said I had to convince you guys that everything he had to do, he had to do alone." Camille explained and you groaned.
"he is so stupid! he could get killed! he always thinks he has to do everything on his own and thinks on his own and he doesn't ask for help" you said in frustration as you ran your hands through your hair.
"you had the wrong ingredients to kill dahlia and he has to buy time before he finds the right ones." camille explained further.
"how?" Elijah asked.
"he is going to use the dagger on himself" Camille said and your eyes widened.
"with dahlia's life linked to his, she'll drop dead with him." you realised what Klaus's plan was.
"I'm really sorry about your friend." Camille told him.
"are you?" Elijah questioned.
"I'm not condoning klaus's actions. I'm trying to help you. All I know is, Klaus will do whatever he has to do for-" Camille was probably about to say for family but elijah cut her off.
"Klaus will do whatever he has to do for Klaus! now hayley is not answering her phone. what has he done?" Elijah interrogated.
"don't blame the messenger" you turn around and saw rebekah, the real rebekah, and Marcel, coming into the compound. It was so good to see Rebekah in her old body again, she was forced into another body for so long you never thought she would go back to her old body ever again.
"Rebekah" You smiled widely and ran and hugged her and she hugged back.
"Ava, it's good to see you" Rebekah said as she hugged you back.
"no hug for me?" Marcel asked with a smiled and arms opened as you and Rebekah pulled away. you rolled your eyes and smiled as you ran to hug him and after awhile, pulled away.
"rebekah" Elijah spoke and looked at her from head to toe, surprised to see her in her old body.
"looks like Niklaus has a lot on his to-do list last night, and as for hayley" Rebekah started.
"what happened to her?" you asked.
"When Klaus attacked me, he stole the spell that i used on the crescent wolves" Marcel explained.
"so he would condemn her to the body of a beast?" Elijah asked.
"Hayley will be human once a month." Rebekah told everyone.
"Are you saying she can only see her baby once a month?" You couldn't believe Klaus would do this to Hayley.
"Not for long. we will find her and we help her. But for now we have to focus on those who need saving today. Freya called, Dahlia is incapacitated, they are two hours north at orchard near Pear River, she has Hope." Rebekah told you guys and you knew Elijah would want to go there as fast as he could.
"Take me with you" Elijah nodded and carried you bridal style and sped out of the compound and to where Freya was.
"well my adage holds, nothing good ever happens in a clearing in the woods" Freya said and you chuckled as you and Elijah walked up to her.
"nothing good ever happens where my brother is concerned, with one exception." he looked over at Hope.
"How is she?"
"she's a Mikaelson, she's resilient." Freya said.
"can I hold her?" You asked and Freya nodded and handed Hope over to you.
"hello Hope, you know your auntie Ava? I'm your cool Aunt" you cooed and Freya chuckled. Elijah smiled at your cuteness and walked over to where Dahlia and Klaus were.
"When I woke, they were like this." Freay told you guys.
"Rebekah tells me Klaus has a plan kill to Dahlia, that he knew our plan would not work" Freya said.
"Yes, according to him, our ingredients were incorrect." Elijah explained.
"Klaus infiltrated Dahlia's mind. you didn't break her heart, we needed the blood of the witch she loved most, and you are not that witch, your mother is." You continued explaining to her while rocking Hope.
"So we need esther. well that's impossible, I killed her" Freya told you guys.
"one incarnation" Elijah told Freya and you saw the uneasy expression on Freya's face and felt bad for her.
"Our mother is burried in New Orleans. Niklaus wants us to revive the original body." Elijah explained and Freya nodded.
"Let's get back to the compound" Elijah said and he went over and carried Klaus to the back of the truck before going over to Dahlia and carried her and placed her beside Klaus while you took Hope's carrier to the back seat of the truck and placing her gently into the carrier. Freya got into the passenger seat before Elijah got into the driver seat and drove off.
Once you guys reached the compound, Elijah called Marcel to carry Dahlia in while he carried Klaus and you carried Hope into the compound. you put Hope's carrier on the fountain and took her out of the carrier and went over to the Mikaelsons. You saw that Marcel was bent over Klaus and poking his arm.
"Nik is demented." He stated.
"are we really to dig up our mother, burn her to ash, swap said ash for Kol's and then trick Davina into using her last chance to bringing someone back from the dead, not to mention we lose the opportunity to save Kol, if Davina doesn't turn us inside out?" Rebekah asked.
"and we will just be killing Esther again after all this so we're just back to square one" you added and everyone turned to you.
"what? I'm just saying what we're all thinking" you shrugged your shoulders.
"we could also dig a deep hole and leave both our problems at the bottom of it" Elijah spoke up.
"I say we choose a more permanent option, find the white oak stake, kill Klaus, Dahlia dies with him." Freya suggested.
"oh yea, and so do I, and every other vampire that Klaus has turned." Marcel told her.
Suddenly you heard a trickling noise and you turned your head and looked at Klaus and your eyes widened.
"um, guys, we got a situation" Everyone looked towards your direction and saw that the dagger in Klaus's chest is melting.
"The dagger is bloody melting." Rebekah swore as Elijah knelt down next to Klaus.
"We have no choice but to finish the task niklaus has set." Elijah said out loud and everyone nodded.
"Rebekah and I will go get our mother's ashes while Marcel and Freya will stay here and find Kol's ashes." Elijah explained.
"what about me? I want to help too." You told him.
"darling, you can help by taking care of Hope, where it's safe, I don't want you to get hurt from this." Elijah told you and you scoffed.
"I can take of myself, I'm a witch from the most powerful coven and have been training with Freya for so long" you retaliated.
" I know but Dahlia is a thousand years old, she's way more powerful than you. Please, we don't have time to argue." Elijah says and you couldn't say anything and just nodded.
Rebekah and Elijah left and Freya and Marcel started looking for Kol's ashes. You weren't going to stay there and do nothing so you left for Hope's room and kissed her before placing her gently in her crib.
"I'm sorry baby, auntie Ava have got some work to do" you said and left the room, making sure to put a spell so that no one can enter into the room unless it's one of your friends. you looked for Freya and Marcel, where they were in one of the rooms, looking for Kol's ashes.
"I thought you were supposed to take care of Hope?" Marcel asked.
"I'm not going to just sit around doing nothing when I can be of use. plus i'm with you guys, nothing will happen. and don't worry I put a boundary spell around Hope's room so no one can go in unless it's one of us" you told him and Freya and Marcel nodded.
"Elijah said Klaus kept Kol's ashes in a blue urn, what he didn't do was narrow the field. Heaven forbid one thing not be a damn secret in this family." Marcel explained as he continued to search while you started searching the cabinets.
"Yet, despite your anger, here you are, casting your lot with Klaus. Is that because you believe his plan's going to work?" Freya asked.
"That is the Mikaelson paradox, you want to love and kill each other all at the same time." Marcel said.
"you got that right" you scoffed. The three of you continued to search for the urn. you missed Kol, even though he could be a hard ass, he would still look out for you whenever necessary. you promised yourself to continue to look for a spell to bring him back from the dead after all this was over.
"look who got lucky" you turned and saw Marcel bringing out the urn from a cabinet and looked inside when his smile dropped as you and Freya walked towards him. He flipped the urn and nothing came out of it and you sighed.
"either you have a curious definition of luck or someone got to those ashes before we did." You told him.
"all right we better find a way to stop that dagger from melting because if the theif is who i think it is, we've got a problem." Marcel said out loud.
"I've got an idea, but Ava I need your help." Freya said and you nodded as the 3 of you went to Klaus.
"Just follow my lead" Freya started chanting and you copied her as she poured salt onto the dagger. It was no use, the dagger is still melting.
"It's no use, we can't slow her magic, everything we're trying fails." Freya said and Marcel ran his fingers through his hair. suddenly you heard creaking and you turned to the stairs and saw vines and leaves growing towards upstairs and towards Hope's room. Dahlia is trying to get to Hope.
"There's got to be a way to kill her" Marcel said.
"there is" you looked at Freya and saw her taking out the white oak stake.
"No! Freya!" Both you and Marcel lunged towards Freya to try and stop her but she used her magic to back you guys to the stairs.
"Please Freya, you don't have to do this, we will find another way." You practically begged her to stop what she was doing and think for a second.
"do you really want to kill your own brother? the family you always wanted." Marcel added in.
"This is the family I longed for, but because of her, i'll always be alone." Freya lifted the stake and plunged it towards Klaus's chest but was stopped by Klaus, who had just woken up.
"Sister" Klaus said as he held her hand with both of his and you sighed with relief. Freya let you and Marcel go and she helped Klaus up as Dahlia got up.
"I'm almost impressed by the lengths you'd go to for your little girl, though not enough to let bygones be." She reached out and the stake from Freya's hand flew into hers
"we are still linked, dear aunt. you may not way to punish me with that particular weapon." Klaus said as he walked forward towards Dahlia.
"Hmm, I made sure that the link between us melted along with the dagger. Meaning, i'm quite free to kill you." Dahlia said and Klaus's face dropped. She used her magic to pull Klaus towards her and was about to kill him but Marcel ran forward and saved Klaus. Dahlia used this time to transport you and Freya to hope's room even though you had placed a boundary spell and took a little bit of hope's blood before teleporting to someplace you didn't know. Dahlia started dragging you and Freya inside an abandoned warehouse.
"2 centuries ago, this city hung its traitors right here, I thought it was only fitting that it be your slaughtering grounds." Dahlia told Freya.
"why'd you bring Ava here. she didn't betray you" Freya asked her.
"she may not have betrayed me, but she is the firstborn of the most powerful covern, I can use her as my power source. not to mention all of you care for her, it would be a good punishment to make you guys see her suffer while you stand there and aren't able to do anything." You feared the worse as she dragged you and Freya inside and made you guys kneel before her as she place a boundary spell around you guys.
"I actually pity you, over the course of our long lives together, I could see you were broken, I used to think it was my fault, but in time, I've learned your ability to love died long ago" Freya said with tears forming in her eyes.
"Darkness isn't born you know, it's created, by snuffing out of a light. so however you thought you might mend me, please no you never could. Whenever I looked into your eyes, I saw your mother, the sister who turned my heart to stone, and with that stone I will crush each and everyone of her children." Dahlia told her. She came to your side and cut your wrist and collected some of your blood.
"what are you doing?" Freya asked her but Dahlia ignored her. she cut her hand and blood dripped from her hand and she started chanting.
"she's linking me to her, I can feel it." you told Freya.
"I'm so sorry Ava, you should never have had to be dragged into my family's drama." Freya said with tears in her eyes. you could feel you eyes welling up too.
"that's not your fault, I knew the risk when I started dating a Mikaelson and I still stuck by, and I would do it all over again if it meant being with Elijah." you said with a smile. you had a plan of your own and you started chanting and you transported yourself spiritually/physically (you'll get it later) to where Klaus was as he is the only one who could help you with the plan
****************************************************
part 2
taglist request
#elijah mikaelson fanfiction#elijah mikaelson#elijah mikealson x reader#the originals#the originals fanfiction#fanfic#freya mikaelson#rebekah mikaelson#hayley marshall#klaus mikaelson#kol mikaelson#marcel gerard#davina claire#hope mikaelson#fantasy#fanfiction#elijah mikealson imagine#elijah mikaelson x female reader#tvd#the vampire diaries#witch#witches#power#sacrifice
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Caretaker and Whumpee had been given a hotel room to rest in for the night. They had just been rescued, and had had a long day at the hospital while police interviewed both of them for statements.
Caretaker looked longingly at the bed as he set his bag down.
"It's been a long time sense I've seen a bed, I'm sure even longer for you", Caretaker watched Whumpee limp past.
"Yes sir", Whumpee sighed, as they glanced out the window and pulled the curtains shut.
"They can't get us, you know that right. They are behind bars in maximum security, and the police are guarding this hotel. You are safe now", Caretaker frowned.
"I haven't been safe in a long time, Caretaker", Whumpee looked at him, "I can't get over this in one night."
"I know that", Caretaker walked towards Whumpee, "I just want you to know that, a reassurance maybe."
Whumpee nodded and quickly wiped a tear, "it's hard, Caretaker. All day today I was waiting to wake up from some dream. I was waiting to open my eyes and be met with a kick to a gut, the cold concrete."
"I know. I was feeling the same thing. Every time the doctor did something to help but still hurt me, I would go back to that room", Caretaker sat down with a sigh, "I bet you will feel a little better after some sleep. Especially in a nice bed like this."
Whumpee looked at the bed, "do I even deserve a bed Caretaker?"
"You deserve a bed more than anyone I know, after what you've been through, and for that long. You survived Whumpee, that's important", Caretaker frowned, "please, if I wake up and you are on the floor, I'll cry. You don't want me to cry do you?"
"What are you guilt tripping me?", Whumpee allowed themself to smile.
"Yes, anything to keep you in the bed", Caretaker grinned.
That night, Whumpee listened to Caretaker snore. The bed was soft on their sore muscles, but it just didn't feel right.
They sat up and peared into the dark room.
'Is this real?', they thought to themself, 'am I finally free?'
They got out of bed and walked to the window. Carefully Whumpee moved the curtain aside and looked out.
"I never thought I'd see this city night life again", Whumpee whispered, "I wish I could walk down their like I use to."
Caretaker stirred and looked up.
"Hey, you better not be getting on the floor", Caretaker sat up and turned on the light.
Whumpee rushed to close the curtain.
"I'm just having a hard time falling asleep, my mind won't stop", Whumpee sighed, "I can't believe I used to walk that city late at night, not a care in the world. Now I'm checking my surroundings every few seconds."
Caretaker nodded, "it's so funny how things happen to us and changes us."
Whumpee nodded, "we probably would have never met each other if it wasn't for them."
"At least they did one good thing, I'm happy now that I've met you", Caretaker smiled.
Whumpee made a gentle nod.
Caretaker pulled the blankets aside, "would sleeping in my bed with me help?"
"We are two grown adults Caretaker, isn't that awkward?", Whumpee looked down, wishing to run into their friends bed because yes, that would help them, but they couldn't admit it.
"It never stopped you before. Those times after we both were tortured. Cuddling close together was almost a relief", Caretaker sighed sadly, but gave a smile, "it was scary to be apart, but all was right when we hugged each other at the end. These are scary times as well."
Whumpee wiped a tear and quickly walked to Caretaker's bed.
Caretaker clicked the light off and wrapped the blanket around both of them.
They whispered reassuring things to each other, the same way they had done every night of their captivity with each other. It wasn't long before they had both settled enough to go to sleep.
Taglist. As always please let me know if you want to be added or taken off of the list. It's not a problem at all. @villainsandheroes @the-beasts-have-arrived @sacredwrath @porschethemermaid @monarchthefirst @generic-whumperz @bloodyandfrightened @freefallingup13 @notpeppermint @cyborg0109
#whump community#whump stuff#whump writing#whump ideas#whump#whumpee#whumper#whump scenario#caretaking#captives#caretaker and whumpee#caretaker#rescued#written trauma#rescued guilt#oc
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[ to give a handkerchief ] tsukishima kei
contains: 700+ words. fluff, palace knight tsukki
end note: a second part for this and here is the prologue :)
haikyuu masterlist
The breeze from outside the palace is unforgiving, relentlessly cold as it slips past through your thin nightgown and into your skin. It prickles your flesh everytime the leaves from the trees sways, making your already frigid night more unbearable.
But even so, the cold breeze couldn't outweigh the heavy and bitter feeling in your chest, one that makes you decide to go out, one that causes a tear to suddenly fall from your eyes.
You're glad that it's the middle of the night, devoid of maids, visitors and knights to find you in your most vulnerable moment, you wouldn't want them to have the luxury to find you crying, to find you suffering all because of them.
Because of how much they berate you. As much as possible, you wanted them to see you with a smile on your face, with a bold countenance that says ‘no matter how many times you push me down, I will still rise up.’ But as their chastisement worsened, being more physical as you age, the more you couldn't keep up the facade of a strong woman.
“You are here again, it seems” you looked up only to find the mysterious knight you've seen almost every night. He's here again, with his trademark helmet, his presence you found solace in, and his pretty, silvery voice that soothes your nerves.
“Just as I thought, you were crying aren't you?” there's a hint of disappointment in his tone, not because of you crying everytime he comes to see you but because he knows the reason why you would suddenly go here late at night, to let your tears fall without anyone seeing.
He hands you a handkerchief, a green one. If you weren't so dejected at the moment, you would've teased and told him that giving someone a handkerchief is the same as confessing, but you didn't, you took the handkerchief and wiped your tears.
“What did they do this time?” he asks, “the maids gave me food with too much salt” typical, something only cowards and lowly servants like them could do.
“and the chef made a dessert with pear.” you heard him curse from under his breath, something that made you giggle a bit.
“They know you are allergic to pear, how insolent. You are a princess, how dare they?” he's getting mad on your behalf, even more angry than you are, cursing the names of those imperial maids and cooks — it's hilarious seeing him get so worked up, get so worked up in something that isn't his problem.
It goes on for quite some time, how he swears that he'll make them pay by pushing them intentionally when he sees them, or to criticize them harshly that they'll cry so much.
It's enough assurance and comfort to make you forget about the whole ordeal, enough to make you stop crying.
“I should go back, thank you for comforting me again sir knight” you smiled at him, just this once you wish you could see the face of the man who comforts you every night but you know it'll take a long time, you can't push someone who told you that he feels insecure when he removes his helmet. For now, you're just glad that he's comfortable enough to see and talk to you everyday.
“Good night princess, have a good sleep” he bids you goodbye, standing still as you enter the palace.
When he couldn't find your figure anymore, Tsukishima removes his helmet, his blonde hair all messy now, cheeks dusted with pink as he recalls what he did earlier.
He gave you a handkerchief?
A handkerchief out of all things.
What was he thinking?
You don't even know his face yet and even if he removes his helmet in front of you, he knows you'll be scared, you'll never talk to him ever again — because out of all the people in the palace, it's him you dislike the most.
How could he tell you that he's Tsukishima kei, the empire's greatest knight, the person your father favors so much?
You've said it multiple times, how much you hate your father and his favorite knight, then how was he supposed to introduce himself to you?
And he still dares to give you a handkerchief? Though it is pretty much needed in that moment, still, that was humiliating.
Tsukishima sighs, burying his face into his hand, really he's so stupid. He could only wish you didn't know what it meant to give someone a handkerchief and wish that someday, he'll introduce himself to you — with no helmet.
#tsukishima x reader#tsukishima x you#tsukishima imagines#tsukishima fluff#tsukishima kei imagines#tsukishima kei fluff#haikyuu x reader#haikyuu x you#haikyuu fluff#haikyuu imagines#haikyuu drabbles#tsukishima drabbles
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Mrs Clause
TW: Smut. Language. Semi-public sex.
SUMMARY: A specific outfit makes JJ act out during the holidays. Fic written from his POV.
WORD COUNT: 1400
REQUESTED
Anonymous asked:
Xmas request 🎄 reader dressing up as (slutty)mrs claus for JJ as a joke but he gets really turned on
Mrs Clause
JJs POV
I hated Christmas for all the reasons she loved it. Family. Gifts. Both luxuries I never knew as the means for enjoyment. And even in her attempts to make our first Christmas together festive and joyous, all I wanted was for it to be over. Decorating the tree only reminded me of how I couldn't afford the gifts she deserved to have beneath it. It was a consistent contrast in my decision to fall for a Kook. And yet, if I was entirely honest with myself, I didn't have much of a choice. Much like the circumstances we were both born into in vast contradiction, I was destined to be indebted to get sensuality as she seemed to pity me long enough to entertain the idea of a life with me. But there had been one detail I was well aware nobody prior to me had shown her and this was that I would never take her for granted.
"Are you ready?" She called from the bathroom door of her bedroom as she had been in wait for what felt like an eternity. Playing with the fringe of a pillow as gaudy as it was comfortable, my eyes lifted to find her in an unfair ensemble.
"Does THIS change your mind about Christmas?" She asked as I was far too stunned to speak. Of course, she was always stunning. From the moment she awoke to the second she'd gone to sleep, moments were stolen in silent admiration. But this was something different entierly.
"If Mrs. Clause would have looked like this when I was younger, I might have behaved more …" She pursed her lips and made the journey to stand between my thighs. My fingers were already quick to rise up her stocking clad skin as I clenched my jaw while ascending higher. The feeling of the faux fur on the edge of her costume did nothing to deter me as a thin skirt traced my knuckles.
"I prefer it when you don't …" She spoke seductively, leaning close enough to smell that pear based perfume I loved in compassion to the coconut shampoo I often ran through her hair in the baths we shared. But in this moment now, I wanted to bend, pull, and ravage her as quickly as possible.
"If you think that I'm above tearing this thing to shreds with my teeth-"
"I was actually hoping you'd just fuck me in it, JJ…it's already ruined with how wet I am just thinking of what you'd do to get it off of me." But in the attempt to test if she had been bluffing, a knock came to her bedroom door and a palm wrapped around my mouth.
"Y-yes?" She stuttered as my fingers made their way beneath the fabric.
"You weren't joking sweetheart, you're fucking soaked for me…" I spoke as the pleasure I left behind by my touch was enough to warrant her to drop her hand.
"What?" She asked to her mother's muffled voice.
"No, I'm not hungry!" She shot back. "Just go without me tonight!"
"But Topper is looking forward to seeing you…" My eyes narrowed to her.
"Oh really?"
"Shhh-" I took my hand to the back of her neck and forced a second finger to station at rest inside of her.
"Bet he would never be able to have you make that face…"
"Please….just wait…"
"Nuh uh, princess. You wanted to wear something like this for this very reaction." I lifted her into a spin until setting her at rest at her back. But I was quick to correct her positioning.
"Nice girls get to lay on their backs…naughty girls go on their knees…" I groaned into her shoulder as I pulled those thin straps down in disregard before kissing that soft skin. All to incite those little moans. Ones I didn't care who heard as they were well aware I was present. Even if they wished me away, her desire to need me here was enough to ignore their damning glares and incessant need to make their daughter the future Thornton Stepford wife.
"You're my naughty girl, aren't you, sweetheart?" I questioned with a wide grin as she turned back and nodded.
"And usually my naughty girl shows me that on her knees, doesn't she?" She shifted to place herself this way, but my swat to her ass kept her in place as she berated me for making our exchange vocal.
"Should have thought of that before wearing this…" I hovered behind her, my lips over her ear.
"And you only wear this for me, understand?"
"You mean I can't wear it for Top? He'd love it, I just know it-" I took hold of her jaw and turned her to face me. I didn't care to remove the outfit from her any longer as I had planned to take my time. Instead, it appeared I had to remind her of what her teasing cost her.
For this, I would pull the fabric of her ensemble to the side before teasing her desperate pussy with my cock. God, I lived to feel her. Nobody else ever felt like her. Nobody else took me as deep or that well. And it was enough to risk the wrath of either of her parents and even the unified Figure Eight as they tried to keep us apart.
"Fuck-" She gasped as I smirked behind her.
"My little Santa baby getting fucked in her cute little outfit…the same one I'm gonna make you come in so if you even think of wearing this around anyone else, they'll know I fuck you right."
"JJ-"
"And in case that isn't enough…" I pulled her to my chest, kissing her lips until they were swollen and she was breathless, lowering to her neck and leaving marks on her skin.
"Nobody will question it."
"They never do." She breathed with pride, never shameful to announce she was mine. At least not in public. In private, she didn't want to be heard. I guess I couldn't blame her in this instance as it would have been awkward to make eye contact to her calling me daddy as her biological one had learned how his little girl liked getting fucked just a few meters from his own room. And a part of me was thrilled by it. That same part rushing into her as she took me as well as always.
"You're so close for me, sweetheart…" I narrated as she nodded, sweat and desperation between us.
"Please-"
"One more time, princess. Loud enough so I can hear you over how well you're taking me like this…"
She hesitated, "I know you can baby…you didn't take my cock…I know you can scream. .so fucking scream for me…"
"JJ-"
"Louder-"
"JJ!!"
Her name was sung by my own groans at war behind clenched teeth as she tensed around me.
"I'm gonna come, princess…"
"Yes, JJ!"
"This fucking outfit is gonna wear both of us, isn't it?"
"Yes…" She breathed one final time as I found paradise between her thighs once again.
"You know I AM expecting you to dress up as sexy santa…" She teased as I fixed her ensemble while playing with the faux spheres left to imitate the sight of buttons.
"I'll even sit on your lap-" She teased as I took hold of the back of her neck and rested my lips to her ear from behind.
"You sit on my lap in this and you'll only get to come by riding my thigh-" She turned, a hand to my chest forcing me back to the edge of the bed.
"Do you want me to tell you what I want for Christmas?" She asked with a playful batting of her lashes.
"Oh, I already know. And you'll get well into New Years- " I asked while she began to rock into me, my thigh tightening and she rode a second high.
Maybe I would find a way to like Christmas after all…even if this was shaping out to be anything but a silent night…
Taglist: @hopebaker @iovdrew @penny4yourthoughts @magnificantmermaid @pickingviolets @lovedetlost @trikigirl271 @maybankslover @slut4starkey @slvtherinseeker @obxiskewl @bluesongbird @slut-era @ailee-celeste @camilynn @sweetestdesire @onmykneesforrafe @drews1love @pankhoeforlife @pankowperfection
#jjmaybank#jj maybank x reader#jjsmut#jj x kook!reader#outer banks#outerbanks#obx#outer banks smut#obx fanfiction#obxsmut#jj maybank#jj maybank smut#jj maybank fanfiction#outerbanks smut#Cameron Chronicles Christmas 2022
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[ SUBJECT INTERVIEW: "DRAGULA" ]
NAME? I was given a name that is no longer relevant.
NICKNAME? Dragula has existed in the net since 2071.
GENDER? I never put stock into it. Male, I suppose.
STAR SIGN? It spans 330 to 360 degrees of celestial longitude.
HEIGHT? Six feet. Or 182 centimeters. I find the metric system to be more appealing.
ORIENTATION? Meat is meat, it serves a function either way.
FAVORITE FRUIT? I can almost remember the taste of a pear but the harder I think about it, the more it feels like ash on my tongue.
FAVORITE SEASON? I’m partial to the autumnal equinox. Cooler temperatures provide the illusion of cleaner air and the cooling system in my unit is perpetually malfunctioning in the heat, but all things considered, I like to watch the leaves die.
FAVORITE FLOWER? The Titan Arum, which blooms only once every decade and smells of rotting flesh. I would very much like to see one some day.
FAVORITE SCENT? Fresh rain on the concrete. For a few brief moments it covers the city in something real.
COFFEE OR TEA? Matcha. I’ve blackmailed a cafe in Kabuki to supply it to me free of charge.
AVERAGE HOURS OF SLEEP? I try for several. I rarely get more than few.
DOG OR CAT PERSON? My mother had a dog when I was still a child, a relentless creature that barked at every whisper. One day the door was left open and I watched it run into the street where a Mackinaw eviscerated it on the pavement. I’ve not seen one since, nor would I want to. Felines have a calmer presence. Quieter, too.
DREAM TRIP? Away.
FAVORITE FICTIONAL CHARACTER? I used to watch a cartoon robot on tv. He would take his head off to end unfavorable conversations. I wish I could do that now.
NUMBER OF BLANKETS YOU SLEEP WITH? I don’t. This city is an inferno, in fact, I’m not convinced these aren’t the very fires of Hell.
RANDOM FACT? A snake driven mad will devour itself whole. Like a glitch in it’s self-preservation, something inside compels it. Have you ever witnessed such a beautiful act of destruction?
tagged by: @chevvy-yates (ty for giving me a reason to do this again!). not tagging anyone specifically now, but if you'd like to participate (or play again) please feel free to tag me!
#cyberpunk 2077#oc: dragula#things you can gain from this: 1) hes not having a good time 2) he definitely killed that dog 3) he hates the heat#pet death cw#i guess? just in case
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How Did Ginny Become... Ginny?
My Theory: Ginny was barely in PoA because she was busy with therapy.
Canoniest of Personal Head Canons: Ginny has no use for therapists; spilling her guts to a stranger is what got her into trouble in the first place.
Here's my take, in a sixth-year conversation:
"I earned my calluses, Harry. Every bump, every blister." Ginny frowned down at her hand. “My second year… you and Ron and Hermione were off rescuing Hippogriffs and chasing animagi. I still didn’t have many friends. Every day I woke up two hours before breakfast and flew on the Quidditch pitch. House teams reserved the pitch after classes, so I would practice sloth rolls and tight maneuvers in the flying yard with the first years until the pitch opened up again. Sometimes I’d skip lunch, too. I spent that whole year on that pitch, Harry.”
At two in the morning, the fire in the hearth beyond the ticklish pear portrait gave the deserted kitchen an intimate glow. Harry licked his lips, wanting to say something, anything. Wanting to apologize, wanting to tell her he wished he hadn’t been an oblivious twat.
They could have had months, years, of flying together on that pitch. Then he remembered something else about that year. “Dementors were surrounding the school, then. You still went out on the pitch?”
“Yeah,” Ginny nodded, her head tilting to the side, as she met his eyes. Knowing, he hoped, that he understood. “They’d get close to the school bounds. Never crossing over, but close enough.” She exhaled a deep breath and stared over at the fire. “I’d hear Tom Riddle in my head. But it made me throw the Quaffle harder. I’d imagine his bloody face in the middle of the hoops.”
Harry felt like an arse, he hadn't known. Still, he said, “Explains how you throw a Quaffle as hard as you do.”
She gifted him a small, apologetic quirk of her lips. “I’m small, I’ve always been small. I don’t have the upper body strength of most Chasers. But I practiced, Harry.”
The flickering torches on the wall backlit her hair, but her flame-colored tresses burned no less than her words. “Every day. Drilling over and over again, trying to find the way the school broom’s momentum would give me just that bit of extra power, just that little torque that would make the Quaffle fly further and faster and harder. I showed up, and I practiced.”
Harry’s thumb flickered over the callus by her small finger, unable to resist. "You earned them."
"Putting myself back together, throw by throw. I know calluses aren't pretty. But I earned them."
"Who says they're not pretty?" Harry blurted, before he remembered she was dating Dean. To cover his embarrassment, he dashed back to the Friend Zone, pretending to examine her palm. "This one's my favorite. It's shaped like a turtle. A, er... really pretty turtle."
So, that's what I imagine happened in canon. I've been getting the question "Is Quidditch is for Losers, canon compliant?" No, it diverges from canon because it takes flying away. It asks the question, "Is Ginny even Ginny without Quidditch?"
The short answer? Flying didn't make Ginny competitive, nor did it make her brave. Quidditch didn't make Ginny hilarious, nor did it make her fall for Harry.
However, a broom accident can have small changes that affect how things happen. And eventually, those small changes add up.
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I can’t help but feel a little loss that Dae wasn’t the one for Kitty. Maybe it’s just me being biased but it seemed like one of those nice guys finish last tropes which I don’t always like. Dae is such a sweet, kind, and caring character. He never wanted to hurt Kitty but due to his financial situation, he felt like he had no choice but to go along with Yuri. You can see the pain in his eyes whenever Kitty was around them. He even slept on the floor outside her door just to make sure he wouldn’t miss her when she left.
His relationship with his family tells so much about who he is. As a son and as a big brother to Bora, you can see he loves his family a lot. The shock on his face when she tells him kids bully her anyway despite how her shoes look. He never wants anyone to be hurting. But then he saves enough money to surprise her with new shoes and buys the pears in remembrance of his mom. And then theres Kitty giving him her Mom’s necklace only a year into their relationship, it really shows how much she cares for him and knows how hard of time Dae was having with his loss because she can relate. I really wish we could have seen Kitty interact with his family because I’m sure there would have been cute moments but I know Kitty’s Korean isn’t good yet.
It also really sucks about Dae and Min Ho’s fallout because along with Q, they are such an amazing trio of friends. They support one another and protect each other, especially when they think Q is being cheated on. The death glare Min Ho gives Florian when they confront him is priceless. Dae never brings up to Min Ho about his suspicion that he might have a crush on Kitty because maybe he doesn’t want to believe it, doesn’t want to believe his best friend would do that to him.
But then we get to the final episode and when I tell you I cried, I cried. Kitty looked so afraid when telling Dae about having feelings for somebody else. Not only does she have to deal with the almost fight between Dae and Min Ho but she’s also so scared coming out to Dae. They are all each other knows and to Dae, this is sudden even though Kitty has had some time to think about who she is and is still figuring things out herself. Could he have handled it better? Yes, majorly he could have.
If they do come out with season 2 who knows if Dae will appear since he lost his scholarship. Suppose this is the end of the chapter for Kitty and Dae, it’s the best first love because they were so freakin cute. I wish they would have made the scene longer with them at the love locks since that is where they first met. All I know is Kitty and Dae will always be my otp.
#sorry for the long rant#I just had to let it out 😭#my boy just can’t win#anyways now with the new teams#definitely team yuri#xo kitty#xo kitty spoilers
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Be My Favorite Ep 8
Why Be My Favorite is a perfect drama:
- one of the MLs doesn't run away in a spur of the moment, because he has a broken heart or there’s a misunderstading and a problem with a phone 😑
- he just states realistically that why would he do it, besides he has responsibilities, like school 🤷♀️
- Piseang: "what made you think I'd go tonight?" Kawi and me: um, let me think, all the BL series so far?
- when Piseang finally leaves Kawi in another reality, he does it only when he really feels that he can't take this situation any longer (after YEARS of suffering, which he NEVER puts on Kawi), and after leaving, he still contacts Kawi, apologizes to him and wishes him all the best
- Piseang thinks Kawi is dating Pear and what does he do? nothing. in any other series, he would run away to the countryside to raise chickens and goats. or raise chickens and goats abroad, whatever, what counts is running away with tears in their eyes, total cut off and silence and DRAMA
- the second ML notices that he has a problem with drinking (even if he had it in another reality) and IMMEDIATELY DOES SOMETHING ABOUT IT, i.e. he simply stops drinking
- the characters reflect on themselves, on their choices. They analyze their mistakes and learn from them
- the characters TALK TO EACH OTHER, they tell each other about their feelings, they argue and make up. They have conversations with each other, sometimes not very pleasant, sometimes they yell at each other, they get offended, but then they always come back to each other to try to talk again
- all misunderstandings are resolved immediately
- very nice, emotional, thoughtful and romantic declarations of love. after which MLs don't become a couple (!!!) and something interesting still happens in their relationship. and which are still one of the loveliest and best suited to the plot confessions of love I've seen. Confession of love doesn't have to be the goal of the romance, there are still a lot of things about the relationship between two people going on and BMF shows it great
- they go on a cute little date where they have fun, nothing feels forced
- also, the series addresses interference in the private lives of celebrities, how rumors affect celebrities' relationships with their friends in and outside the industry. the pressure and paranoia that comes with it
- addressing the rights of LGBT people. scenes and conversations on the topic that are NOT ABOUT MAIN COUPLE AND THEIR ROMANCE
"You've become an important part of my life. It's the part that I can't lose ever again. When I didn't have you by my side, I knew right away, that it was the biggest mistake of my life" 🥺🥺🥺
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axelle judges bl shows > Be My Favorite
summary: Kawi is 30 and lives a shitty life. His father died, he has a low paying but exhausting job, no friends, and Pear, the girl he's liked since his university days, is getting married to their classmate, Pisaeng. When Kawi discovers that he has the ability to travel through time, becoming 20 again, he decides to try and seduce Pear. One problem: Pisaeng is there to get in his way.
where to watch: youtube
grade: 8,5/10
pros:
the story is not only pretty original, but very well written. I think everyone can find themselves relating to elements of the show, and I loved the topic of wanting to go back in time to fix things which is something everyone has wished at least once in their life. I also love that we see the characters slowly detach themselves from trying to change & predict the future, but actually enjoy the present, which is a pretty beautiful message to pass. the theme of the show truly makes it so lovable and important in my eyes.
the acting was really good from everyone! my favorites were of course my baes gawin & aye who especially slayed :) krist also really impressed me considering I was obviously skeptical about him acting in bl again.
LOVED LOVED LOVED the pisaeng coming out storyline. it wasn't anything incredibly original, but actually was never done that way in a bl show & made incredibly respectfully and well, especially thanks to fluke gawin's performance!
gawinkrist ate?? the chemistry was mostly really good on & off screen and they really sold pisaengkawi to me.
cons:
all of my problems with the show come from the writing, so here you go:
I wish we'd seen kawi's feelings more before he changed his mind from liking pear to wanting to be with pisaeng. I know it was explained as him suddenly realizing it once pisaeng was gone from his life, but I still wish they'd given it slightly more time so we could really feel the weight of kawi's feelings.
I found the pisaengkawi's first time storyline kinda badly executed, even though the sex scene in itself was beautifully acted & filmed. kawi's discomfort with sex is never explored, and he changed his mind without us ever seeing his thought process. I wish we could've gotten a scene where pisaengkawi discussed their relationship with sex & it was made clear that kawi does want to have sex but is just scared, bc without that scene, it feels like kawi doesn't really want it, and the cut from pisaengkawi not getting along great to them having sex was really jarring in the show.
I wanted the side characters to be more developed, and believe there was enough screentime for that. I would've loved to see pear finding herself outside of romantic relationships, kwan finally meeting a man that treats her like she deserves, I wanted max to be more than just activist pride guy (which, SLAY!) and get more screentime & depth bc he's fucking iconic, and even crusty not should've been shown having grown & become a better person after 10 years.
would I rewatch it: absolutely!
If you'd told me Be My Favorite would be one of my favorite shows of the year, I would have laughed at you in the face. In fact, I was the first one doubting this pairing and even the precedent one, but I gotta say... this show really pulled through for me. It is more flawed than I'd like, but still a very touching show about a topic frankly rarely or even never seen in bl. I'm so glad I gave it a chance :)
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