Pairing: Jax Teller x fem!fitness instructor!Reader Word Count: 4.8k [Series Masterlist] [Jax Fic Masterlist]
Warnings: 18+; gym rat!Reader, enemies to lovers, opposites attract, sexual tension, forced proximity, smut, arrogant Jax, canon typical violence
a/n: I'm going on a long weekend trip after tomorrow and wanted to give y'all another part before I left. All feedback (reblogs/comments/likes) is very appreciated!
Series tag list: @kmc1989 @lycanbeks92 @catswonderland @magic-sprinkled-daydreams @shiggynuggiez @rayray0171 @stevie75 @deesh-e @chloe-skywalker @kylorensbaby @themusingofagothicsoul @lanadelrey10 @dugiioh @latinakitty17 @persephone-in-the-reeds
[if anyone else would like to be added to the tag list let me know!]
“He's not–that bad,” Juice panted, forearms shaking as he struggled to hold the plank. “Really.”
Leaning your shoulder against the black brick wall of Iron Pulse, you stared down at Juice as he held the pose atop a blue yoga mat. Beads of sweat glistened along his brow under the fluorescent gym lights, and a tremble began advancing from his upper body and down to his legs. He still had two more of these one minute sets left to complete after this one, but he was already worn from the brutal arm and chest day that you'd thrown him through this morning, which was apparent in how out of breath he sounded.
One of your brows arched skeptically onto your forehead at his defense of Jax, not entirely certain how you’d both landed on the topic. Teller wasn’t someone you cared to place any level of thought on for any duration of time. You preferred to pretend he didn’t exist.
“Of course you're going to say that,” you flatly replied. “You willingly chose to follow whatever brainwash slop that club fed you.”
“Not–brainwash slop,” he disagreed, breathless. “It's a–brotherhood. Like family.”
“Seems more like a cult,” you countered.
Juice's head tilted just enough so that he could peer up at you from the plank he was holding on the mat, disapproval etched into the lines around his eyes. You simply shrugged a shoulder in response, not caring what he thought about your opinion of his president or his club. Your attention shifted across the gym and landed on the large digital clock mounted on the wall, monitoring the bit of time remaining as Juice held his plank. The last ten seconds of his first set ticked by slowly while he continued watching you, but you ignored the staring.
“Time,” you eventually called, glancing back down at him. “Two minute rest before the next set.”
He collapsed onto his stomach with a heavy thump, his eyes falling shut as he laid there on the yoga mat breathing heavily. Your attention wandered around the gym as you let Juice catch his breath, taking in the few others that were already here this morning.
You recognized the usual morning crowd. It generally consisted of older folks who came to get in their light workout walking along the treadmills to start off their day. Things didn’t usually pick up at Iron Pulse until most people finished work around four in the afternoon, and you weren’t here much longer after that, never wanting to work the later hours with how busy the clubhouse across the street became at night. It made you uncomfortable.
“You spend too much time listening to the town gossip.”
At the sound of Juice’s somewhat recovered voice, you focused back down on him. He was still lying flat on his stomach along the blue mat with his eyes closed, sweat trickling down his temple now. Lips twisting into a frown, you realized today wouldn’t just be friendly discussions and jokes as you finished his session, because apparently he was intent on addressing the leather-clad elephant in the room.
“It’s not all true,” Juice finished.
“Maybe not,” you conceded. “But I’ve had the displeasure of encountering Teller on more than one occasion in the time I’ve been working here. He’s a crude, infuriating asshole and you will never change my mind about him.”
Juice opened one eye, peering up at you from the mat. You shot him a look which clearly stated I-am-digging-my-heels-in-on-this. You’d never once had a normal, friendly interaction with Jax. He’d always been rude and excruciatingly inappropriate if he wasn’t downright insulting. You doubted you’d ever cross paths with a more vile human than Jax Teller.
“He’s only like that ‘cause you insulted him,” Juice told you.
Taken by surprise, your mouth fell open in disbelief at the accusation. He made it sound as if Jax’s treatment of you was entirely your fault. You stood there leaning against the wall with your mouth agape, a stunned noise sneaking out of you as you waited for him to walk back what he’d just said. When he didn’t, a nearly hysterical laugh broke through the tension before a sardonic smile ripped itself across your lips.
“Are you serious?” you shot back. “You really think this is my fault? Because I what? Stood up for myself when he made those crass comments about my body and openly propositioned me for sex? Which need I remind you–he shouted everything across the street at me. And that was before someone else started making some rather disgusting observations about my ass.”
Juice’s face drew tight into a wince, the corner of his lips dipping to the side as he propped himself up on one arm. “Okay, yeah,” he replied slowly. “That wasn’t exactly his best moment. And well, I got no excuse for Tig sayin’ the shit he did. But you called Jax some pretty colorful things in return. And I mean he’s…” He trailed off, tipping his head from side to side as he searched for the words. “Well, y’know, not exactly someone you talk to like that without repercussions. He’s the Sons’ president.”
“Wow,” you sarcastically replied, crossing your arms over your chest. “Well excuse the ever loving fuck out of me for not bowing down to Charming’s white trash royalty because he wants to fuck me.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Juice argued back. “I just meant that he’s got a reputation to maintain. You sayin’ that shit publicly makes him look bad. He can’t just have you talkin’ shit to his face, y’know?”
“No,” you snapped. “I don’t know. Being some biker president doesn’t excuse the shit he said to me that first time, or all those months of him intentionally seeking me out just to harass me. Stop wasting your breath trying to paint him differently, Juice. Teller is a misogynistic scumbag. He’s repulsive and I want nothing to do with him.”
Juice ran a hand across his sweaty forehead as you scowled down at him, your mood now soured by this entire discussion and it wasn’t even ten in the morning. It didn’t matter what Juice said to you, you would never change your opinion about Teller. He’d done too much damage for you to ever believe there was something redeemable about him.
“I just think you need to give him a chance. Get to actually know him before you pass judgement,” Juice diplomatically tried again. “And not just him. The Sons aren’t that bad, either.”
Your tongue poked into your cheek as you fixed him with a pointed look, brows slightly raising onto your forehead. He’d gotten a membership here barely two weeks ago, but he’d worked things out with you and the other gym employees so that he could enter and exit through the back door instead of using the front entrance. Juice claimed it was due to the animosity between the Sons and the Iron Pulse employees, saying that he wanted to keep it quiet that he’d started coming here, not wanting to spark more issues between his club and the gym across from it.
“Is that why you need to hide where you go to work out from them?” you questioned, tipping your head condescendingly to the side. If he was going to make you think about Jax far more than you’d wanted to at the start of your day, you weren’t going to go easy on him. “Because they’re not that bad? Because they’re such good, nice, upstanding guys? Guys who wouldn’t care about where you choose to go in your free time?”
Juice released an exaggerated huff as he rolled his eyes. “Fine, I’ll stop hiding it,” he relented. He gestured a hand across the gym, waving it at the propped open front door behind him. “I’ll leave through the front like everyone else today. No more hiding where I go in the mornings. Happy?”
“Congratulations, it only took you nearly two weeks to stop hiding from your club,” you deadpanned.
Gaze shifting back to the clock on the wall across the gym, you noticed his two minutes of rest time were finished. Grateful to give Juice a reason to stop talking about the Sons and focus back on why he was actually here, you crossed your ankles and stubbornly set your jaw.
“Begin the next set,” you ordered. “Another front plank. Hold it for a minute.” Still feeling embittered by the entire discussion he’d dragged you into, you added, “Then you’ve got a final set and stretches before you can exit out of the front door to a round of applause from me.”
With a heavy sigh, Juice rolled back over onto his front along the mat before pushing himself back into a plank. “For someone who hates him so much,” he muttered under his breath, “you sure sound just like him.”
By the time your shift had ended at Iron Pulse, your mood hadn’t improved much. Juice’s comments had plagued you throughout the day, which unfortunately kept Teller lingering in the back of your mind like a terrible headache you couldn’t shake. It didn’t help that you’d had to deal with multiple gym members refusing to put their weights away and wipe down their machines after they’d used them, so your mood had only worsened when you’d finally gotten to your own workout.
You’d felt it during your entire routine–you were off today. It was a struggle to get through your usual chest workouts, fighting just to push yourself to complete each exercise. It was as if the plates had somehow become exponentially heavier on purpose solely to make you even more bitter. Because you hated feeling weak. That usually only happened during your period weeks, and that was irritating enough, you didn’t need to be thrown off your game when you weren’t even menstruating.
But your bad day was finally over. Now you'd get to go home, and you were looking forward to briefly washing up in the shower, cleaning away the stench of sweat and gym which clung to you like a second skin. The warm water would ease your tense, sore muscles as you relaxed beneath the shower spray, letting all the negative things from today flow down the drain. Afterwards, you planned to make pasta for dinner, which you were excited to devour with how ravenous your workout had left you.
So the absolute last thing you'd wanted was to see the odd, uneven tip of the back end of your Toyota as you approached it. The repetitive buzz and whir of tools over at the Sons’ garage drifted across the street, carried towards you on the late afternoon breeze as you came to a stop by the trunk of your car. You took one look at the awkward slant of your Toyota before the black gym bag hanging on your shoulder slid down your arm and collapsed onto the sidewalk beside your feet with a solid thunk.
The back right tire of your car was entirely flat, and it now sat dangerously close to the rim. The rubber of the tire looked as if it had melted into the asphalt in the heat of the day, and your shoulders sagged miserably at the realization that you’d most likely need a new one.
“Fuck,” you cursed under your breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Eyes snapping shut, you fought down the sting of frustrated tears that abruptly sprung forward. Pressing the palms of both your hands against your closed eyelids, you sucked in a deep breath and held it, trying to calm yourself down so you could think. You knew that there was a spare tire in the trunk of your car, and you theoretically knew how to swap them out. You could change it yourself, though you questioned your ability to accomplish the task before one of the guys over at Teller-Morrow Automotive noticed you and probably came to bother you.
They were also the only mechanic shop in Charming. The next closest was probably thirty miles away from the small town. Could you manage to drive that far on a spare tire? You’d never driven on one before, yet it seemed do-able. But it was getting late and you doubted a garage would be open too much longer tonight, which meant that your car wouldn’t get fixed until tomorrow, leaving you stuck trying to find a way back to Charming without your Toyota. Paying for a ride would only add to the cost of just getting the flat fixed, and that was already going to be pricey–you didn’t make a fortune as a trainer.
How had this even happened? You’d driven here without issue earlier this morning, and your car had been parked on the street all day. You hadn’t driven it since you’d arrived at work. Had there been a slow leak that’d been steadily deflating while you’d been at the gym?
“Why today?” you groaned, hands scrubbing down your face. “Why this?”
“I see you’ve already found the flat, Peaches.”
That irritatingly familiar voice had you tense instantly, your face still buried in your hands. The unmistakable lilt of arrogance and amusement grated on your nerves, darkening an already bleak day. Your tongue pressed against the back of your teeth as your back straightened, anger already igniting in your chest. You were not in the mood to have an argument with him.
Your hands slowly slid down your face and fell to your sides as you looked over, your eyes easily finding him. Teller swaggered across the street towards you, the corner of his lips quirked into a wide grin. His eyes ran over you twice, gaze lingering along your ass and your chest before they drifted over to the flat tire you were currently lamenting.
“Looks pretty done to me,” he commented. He pointed a grease-stained finger at the tire as he added, “You’re gonna need a new one.”
“Yeah, no shit,” you ground out.
He glanced back at you, eyes alight as he openly reveled in your misfortune. “Relax, darlin’. I came over here to help.” He paused, the corners of his lips curling back further. “But only if you ask me real nice.”
The audacity of this asshole. I’d rather prop my car up with his stupid face and change the tire myself.
“You’re the last person I’d ever ask for help,” you retorted.
Jax casually shrugged his shoulders as he neared, the grin lingering on his lips. “Suit yourself, Peaches,” he said. “But you still gotta flat to deal with.”
Your eyes narrowed suspiciously back at him, your mind beginning to slowly mull over the entirety of the situation. While it was possible that you had run over something and punctured the tire which had led to a slow leak, it also seemed just as likely that Teller might’ve popped your tire on purpose simply to mess with you. The last time you’d encountered him nearly a week ago, you’d certainly pissed him off. Maybe this was his way of getting back at you, especially since he’d left you with that threat of needing to watch yourself. He seemed far too pleased with your misfortune right now, and he did stand to benefit from you paying his garage for the work. Then there was the obvious satisfaction he’d gain from you having to need his help with something.
“Did you do this?” you demanded, pointing a finger at your tire. “Is this your idea of a joke? Or some kind of payback for hurting your fragile ego?”
Jax’s grin vanished at the accusation, his own eyes narrowing to slits. The mischievous glint in them extinguished, suddenly replaced with the usual simmering disdain and irritation he harbored for you. You studied him closely, searching for any signs of an admission of guilt.
“You serious, Peaches?” he questioned, voice lowering as he took another step closer. “You think I got nothin’ better to do than sit around and slash your fuckin’ tire or somethin’?”
“I definitely wouldn’t put it past you,” you bitterly replied. “You stand to benefit financially, and you get to annoy me about it. Sure sounds like something you’d do.”
“You’re fuckin’ bat shit,” he shot back. “I got better things on my mind to think ‘bout that ain’t you, darlin’. Don’t flatter yourself.”
Your nose scrunched. “Ew. I wouldn’t call your attention something to be flattered by, Teller,” you retorted. “I’d rather never share air in your vicinity.”
With a heavy roll of his eyes, Jax took two steps backwards throwing his hands up into the air as if he was done with you already. “Whatever,” he said. “You still gotta problem to deal with, and if you wanna be a fuckin’ priss about it, go ahead. Next closest garage is near Stockton, and they’re closin’ in forty. Have fun figurin’ your shit out, darlin’.”
He swung around and started to cross the street, the reaper on the back of his kutte taunting you with its ghoulish smile. Teeth sinking into your bottom lip, you gnawed it in frustration as your attention returned to the flat tire. As much as you hated to admit it, Teller unfortunately had a point, you did need to deal with this. Taking it into Teller-Morrow would’ve been the easiest and fastest solution–the garage was right there across the street. It’d save you from having to slip on a spare tire or call for a tow to another shop before attempting to try to find a ride back out to Charming.
But the idea of having to ask Teller for help and dealing with the Sons sounded like sheer torture. He could charge you whatever he wanted for the service just to be an asshole, and you’d be helplessly at his mercy. The thought of that alone made you want to run headlong into oncoming traffic. But despite that, forcing yourself to set aside your pride and interact with him for a brief period of time solely for the sake of fixing your car might be worth it in the long run. Even if you heavily suspected the flat was his doing all along. You doubted–or at least desperately hoped–that whatever he put you through and whatever he charged you in the end would still be less than the hassle and expense of the alternative.
Sucking in a deep breath, you fought down the nauseating twist of your stomach. Jax hadn’t stopped in his retreat towards the garage, making it quite clear that he wasn’t going to wait for you to change your mind. Closing your eyes, you slowly exhaled the breath you’d taken, hating what you were about to do with every fiber of your being.
“Wait,” you called out.
Jax paused mid-stride at the sound of your voice, stopping just before he stepped up onto the curb across the street. The slow, smooth way he casually turned back around towards you, with his head slanting to the side and that irritatingly smug smirk stretching over his lips, made you want to double over and vomit right on the street. But you forced yourself to push on, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck.
“Can your garage fix my flat?” you reluctantly questioned. The words were acid as they passed over your tongue, burning on their way out. “I’d rather not drag it all the way out of town this late.”
“‘Course we know how to fix a flat, Peaches,” he called back. He began taking a few measured steps back towards you with a glint in his eye that you didn’t like. “But…”
For the love of God, do not ask me to say please. I may just murder you.
“But,” he continued, the smirk sliding further across his face as he sauntered towards you, “I don’t tolerate hostility in my place of business. So I’m gonna have to ask that you’re friendly to my staff, darlin’.”
Your hands curled into fists at your sides, your nails digging sharply into your palms. He continued closing the gap between you both, obviously pleased with having the upper hand around you for once, which only heightened your suspicions about the tire. He knew exactly how to get under your skin and you absolutely hated that. And you knew he’d expect you to be friendly while dealing with the guys at the garage or he’d find some other way to fuck with you.
“You good with that, Peaches?” he pressed.
“Yes,” you tersely grit out between your teeth.
“Good girl,” Jax drawled. Stopping in front of you, he held out his hand, palm expectantly upturned. “Gonna need your keys then, darlin’. And you’ll get your car back whenever we’re done with it.”
With your lips pressed firmly together in frustration, you slipped your hand into the side pocket of your biker shorts, pulling out your car keys. It felt as if you were handing part of your soul over to the devil when you reluctantly dropped them into Jax’s awaiting palm. His fingers curled around your keys, and the thought of him touching and driving your Toyota made your skin crawl.
“Better get it back in one piece,” you warned him.
“Hey, I run a respectable business, Peaches. Don't insult me,” he reprimanded, though his smirk continued to taunt you. “You gonna want a ride home? ‘Cause I can have a prospect drop you off.”
“Hard pass,” you immediately declined. “I'd rather walk.”
Shortly after you'd arrived home, you'd headed directly for your shower. Covered in a light layer of sweat from the mile walk back in the summer sun, you'd welcomed the warm water once it fell over you, but it ultimately hadn't done much to relax you after the day you'd had.
You'd spent half the night afterwards wondering if you'd made a huge mistake leaving your car at the Sons’ garage. Would they fuck things up further? Oversell you on a tire and their labor? Take their sweet ass fucking time and finish your car days later, claiming they were backed up and busy? Cut your brake lines for shits and giggles?
Your mind had raced with hundreds of scenarios while you'd made dinner and ate it. By the time you'd finally sat down on the couch before bed, you felt as if you'd just done one of Dominic’s crossfit workouts. Your brain was like a bowl of oatmeal–thick and sluggish.
Laying stretched out along your couch, your eyes were half-lidded as you watched one of your guilty pleasure shows before bed. You'd been gradually starting to drift off to the soft hum of your television, succumbing to sleep with how worn out you were, until a rumble of engines and a flash of headlights cut through the room and caused your eyes to snap fully open.
The headlights shining through your living room windows cut off at the exact same time one of the engines outside silenced. A cold trickle of fear inched its way up your spine as you went entirely still on the couch, your heart beginning to pound in your chest. A car door slammed shut in your driveway and your head darted up from the couch pillow, your entire body suddenly alert as you looked out the living room window.
It was hard to see much through the darkness outside, but you spotted a figure pass up the path that led to your door. Along the street sat a dark gray van, the lights shining down the road as it idled and completely blocked your driveway. Two sharp raps came at your front door next and fear seeped into your bones, your body sinking into the cushions.
Who the fuck was at your door? It was just after nine at night on a Thursday. You had no one planning to stop by, and certainly no one who would be showing up in multiple vehicles. Your mind raced as your breath came in shallow bursts, eyes still lingering on the familiar looking gray van parked outside. Where had you seen it before?
You startled on the couch when the person behind the door called your name through it, a soft shriek of surprise slipping out of you. Clutching the pillow beside you on the couch, you gripped it as if it would somehow protect you from whoever was outside.
“You home?” the voice called again. “Look, I know it's kinda late, but Jax asked us to drop off your car. Said you'd probably need it for tomorrow.”
Sitting rigid on your couch with your nails still digging into the soft fabric of the pillow, you gradually began to process what he'd said. The adrenaline coursing through your veins steadily began to fade as everything started to piece itself together. It was just the Sons dropping off your fixed car. But why so late at night? The garage had closed down hours ago.
Rising up from the couch in confusion, you carefully crossed the living room and headed to the front door. You turned on the outdoor lights before leaning forward and looking out through the peephole, not wanting to blindly open your front door without double-checking who was standing there first. A dark haired man stood on the small porch, and he was wearing a leather kutte which resembled the ones the other Sons wore, except his boasted a single patch which just read ‘prospect.’
Trying to calm the nerves that their arrival had sent coursing through you, you began unlocking the front door. When you finally opened it, you came face to face with the man you swore you remembered you’d overheard them calling Rat before. He offered you a friendly smile which immediately set you on edge before he raised a hand in the air, jingling your car keys in the space between you both.
“Your car is finished,” he told you. “Jax wanted us to drop it off. It's parked in the driveway.”
He gestured his other hand towards the car that had shined its lights through your window, and your gaze followed after it. Your silver Toyota sat innocently there as the van continued idling behind it. You now understood that it was Rat's ride back to the clubhouse.
Turning your attention back towards him, your brows furrowed as you glanced down at the keys in his hand. “I don't understand,” you said, looking back up to meet his stare. “Why’re you dropping it off? Don’t you guys want me to come in and pay for the repair first?”
Rat's expression grew sheepish, his hand still holding your keys out to you. “Well, uh,” he began, tone turning a little awkward. “Jax said that there was no charge.”
Suspicion washed over you in an instant, your eyes narrowing back at him. No charge for the new tire and the work his guys did to put it on? Something was definitely going on, and now you were regretting taking your car there. Was he expecting you to owe him a favor for this? The idea made you internally cringe.
“Why?” you pressed.
“He said to tell you that there's–” he paused, his sheepish smile growing a little wider and more uncomfortable, “–there's nothing that he could ever want from an uptight, self-righteous bitch. Including her money.”
Your mouth fell open in shock, your eyes widening slightly. So Jax was throwing your insult back at you, the one from the other day? The one that pissed him off for some unknown reason? All because you'd said there was nothing you'd ever want from him? This was certainly proof that it'd somehow struck a nerve, especially if he was still thinking about it enough to have a prospect deliver that message along with your car.
Is his ego truly that fragile?
Reaching out, you finally grabbed your keys from his outstretched hand. Rat looked relieved when he took a step back, as if he was glad that he'd completed the task he'd been given without having to enter a verbal sparring match with you.
“If he's expecting a thank you, he's not getting one,” you stated.
“Don't think he'd want one anyway,” Rat replied.
His hand rose and fell quickly in a half-hearted wave before he turned and cut through your grass, heading straight towards the gray van parked in the street at the bottom of your driveway. You watched him for a few seconds, fingers toying with your keyring, before your gaze shifted to your Toyota. Your eyes dipped down to the back tire, and as a cool breeze brushed past your cheek, the suspicion that Jax had been the one to pop it still lingered at the forefront of your mind.
Jax is such a dogggg!!! We know he popped her tire on purpose looool! Now, I did find myself giggling at the insult he threw back to her because I was not expecting it but it sounds so like Jax. Lastly, im concerned that they now have her address because we all know SAMCRO’s default mode is demon time 💀😫 ESPECIALLY THEIR PRESIDENT!!
Pairing: Jax Teller x fem!fitness instructor!Reader Word Count: 3.6k [Series Masterlist] [Jax Fic Masterlist]
Warnings: 18+; gym rat!Reader, enemies to lovers, opposites attract, sexual tension, forced proximity, smut, arrogant Jax, canon typical violence
Summary: You'd loathed Jax Teller from the first time he'd catcalled you. Unfortunately working at Iron Pulse, the gym located across the street from the Sons of Anarchy's compound, meant run-ins with him were inevitable. After nearly a year of his harassment, you immediately assume the death threats you begin finding are Teller's idea of a prank–until you're forced to stay at the Sons' cabin in the middle of nowhere.
a/n: I've been craving an enemies to lovers series with Jax, so here we go! Feedback (reblogs/comments/likes) is always appreciated!
Blowing out a tired breath between your lips, you bent over and picked up the black gym bag which you always stored in the breakroom during your shifts. With a slight grunt of effort, you slung the strap over your shoulder, your biceps and upper back muscles burning from overuse. You’d squeezed in a grueling workout after you'd completed your last training session for the day with Miriam–the sixty-eight year old woman who happened to be your favorite member of Iron Pulse.
Sidestepping the little café-style table in the breakroom, you bypassed the vending machine and small fridge as you headed towards the door which led back out to the gym. With every slow drag of your gold Nikes over the tiled floor, the ice in your protein shake made a quiet thunk thunk against the side of the shaker bottle you carried. Tuesdays were always your longest days.
Stepping back out into the gym, you became once more entrenched in the heavy clank of weights hitting the rubber mats as multiple men loudly grunted and groaned in exertion over the music playing on the speakers–Wade’s playlist now that you were done for the day. Breathing in the pungent odor of stale sweat clinging to the rubbery floor mats and leather benches, the distinct smell overpowered the strong disinfectants used to wipe everything down. The front door, which was always propped open in an attempt to ventilate the space, never did much to eliminate the smell, but you'd long since grown accustomed to it.
A light sheen of sweat coated your forehead, and you raised your free hand up, dabbing the back of it along your skin as you headed past the row of squat racks positioned along the wall. Bringing the shaker bottle to your lips, you drank down the tangy strawberry kiwi drink that you’d been looking forward to post-workout, the cold liquid helping to cool you down. But as you strode towards the exit, each of your limbs lagging at the effort, you could feel eyes following you through the gym, the pressure of them lingering against your backside.
There were very few female lifters that visited Iron Pulse–though truthfully there were few which even lived within the boundaries of Charming–but you also happened to be the only female employee at the gym. Which meant you’d grudgingly accepted that the eyes of the men here often followed you through the mirrors which lined the walls whenever you were at work. It was impossible to get through a single set of squats or Romanian deadlifts on leg day without multiple sets of eyes attempting to discretely watch your ass in whatever shorts or leggings you wore.
It was something you'd always hated about gym culture–women's bodies were generally treated as if they were intentionally on display. You'd never joined the gym all those years ago looking for attention, it was something you'd done solely for health and a hobby, a hobby which eventually turned into your passion. It was unfortunate that “gym bros” often made the opposite sex feel so uncomfortable and unsafe to simply step a foot into a gym let alone venture anywhere beyond the treadmills at the front.
Continuing past a group of dip stations and ignoring the heads which tracked your progress towards the exit, you found Wade leaning his thick forearms along the front desk. His dark blonde head was bowed over as he stared at something on his phone, finger absently scrolling across it. When he caught your approach from his peripheral, Wade tipped his head back and looked up from his screen, greeting you with a friendly smile.
“Finally heading out for the night?” he asked. “Thought you'd never finish your workout. You were goin’ at it for a while.”
“I added a few new sets into today's rotation,” you told him. Readjusting the strap of your bag along your shoulder, you stopped in front of the desk. “My Tuesday routine started to feel stale.”
“Been there plenty of times myself,” Wade commiserated. His green eyes flickered to your right, the corners of his lips curving in disapproval. “You should watch out, though. We got a murder of them outside right now,” he warned you.
Slanting his head towards the front windows of the gym where his attention was focused, your gaze followed the movement to where he'd gestured. Loitering around on the lot across the street were a handful of Sons, each of them smoking cigarettes. Those of you who worked at Iron Pulse had long since started referring to them as crows, the term derived from the way they often called themselves SAMCRO. It was a way to throw their name back at them, and it seemed rather fitting since the group of them did commit murder together–allegedly.
The Sons’ muffled voices and laughter carried through the open door of the gym on a warm breeze, the deep rumble of it causing your shoulders to tense. In the late afternoon sun you spotted a flash of gold hair outside, and your stomach instantly dropped to the floor beside your Nikes. A scowl settled onto your face as your gaze locked onto their president, watching him take a drag on the cigarette in his fingers. A long trail of smoke blew past his lips as he clapped one of the men beside him on the back.
Asshole.
You despised Jax in particular. You had ever since that day you’d first started working at Iron Pulse. When your shift had ended and you’d been heading out to your car parked on the street, ready to make your way home after a long day, he’d shouted some obscene comments at you that he stupidly thought sounded flirtatious. His crude remarks were then followed by a handful of lewd ones directed your way from a few of the other Sons that’d been outside with him, which he only laughed at.
In the almost year since your unfortunate first encounter with him, you’d grown tired of the inappropriate and insolent way he continued addressing you. His eyes always shamelessly roamed over your body in a way that made your skin itch, and you hated how he took you in like you were no different than all those loose women that hung around at their clubhouse. As if you were some sex toy to be used for his pleasure instead of an actual person standing in front of him.
“You want me to walk you out?” Wade offered. “Help keep them at bay for you?”
Glancing back at Wade where he was still leaning against the front desk, you took in his slightly larger than six foot frame. He was broad chested and muscular, chiseled from all of the hard work he put in at the gym himself. But despite his upper body being as thick as a tree trunk, you knew he wasn't going to do much to intimidate and deter Teller from harassing you. Those men had egos larger than their list of criminal activities.
“No,” you declined. Offering him a half-hearted smile, you already felt exhausted at the prospect of yet another fuckboy Teller encounter on the horizon. “I can handle the bottom feeder on my own, I just wish I didn't have to deal with him at all.”
“It's because he likes you, Princess Peach,” Wade teased.
A dramatic roll of your eyes met the ridiculous remark. “Fuck off, don't be gross,” you admonished. “He's a sleazeball with the emotional capacity to rival my coffee maker. The only thing that guy likes more than loose women, cigarettes, and alcohol is his right hand.”
Wade cracked a grin as he pushed away from the front desk, straightening up and pocketing his phone in his sweatpants. “You use that one on him yet?”
“I've used plenty of insults on him,” you told him, attention traveling back towards the window in annoyance. Jax was impossible to miss among the group of Sons outside, and your scowl deepened when you easily found him again among the sea of leather. “Yet somehow the idiot won’t stop harassing me. If only the feds would come pick him up and give him a nice, long vacation in Stockton.”
“One can only hope,” Wade wistfully agreed.
“I'll see you tomorrow,” you said, lifting your protein shake in salute at him. Reluctantly turning towards the door, you muttered miserably, “Assuming I survive the walk to my car.”
As soon as you stepped outside onto the sidewalk, you could feel the palpable shift in the air. It wasn’t just the late afternoon heat or the sun blazing down from overhead in contrast to the air conditioning you’d felt inside the gym, there was a buzzing in the air heightened by the Sons’ raucous laughter and chatter coming from across the street. The hair at the nape of your neck bristled in response, but you fought the urge to duck your head and shrink yourself in their presence. Because that was exactly what Teller would’ve wanted, and you refused to ever give him a crumb of what he desired. Instead, you confidently strode down the sidewalk towards your silver Toyota at the end of the street, drinking your protein shake as if you were completely unbothered by the notorious bikers just thirty feet away.
Except you weren’t. They made you uneasy no matter how well you hid it when you interacted with them. They were dangerous criminals. You’d heard plenty about each of them through the rumor mill around town. Even Teller’s mother, Gemma, made you wary, though she’d never done more than offer you what seemed like a genuine compliment at the grocery store once. Despite how you held your ground whenever Jax goaded and insulted you, deep down you were terrified of the day that you might finally encounter the monster lurking beneath all those arrogant smirks and dirty comments.
Their booming voices drifted across the street as you counted down the distance between you and your car with each of your steps. Twenty-five feet. Twenty feet. Fifteen feet. It wasn’t until you were just three cars away from the back of yours that you heard the high-pitched, distinct whistle tear through downtown. Grip tightening around the purple shaker bottle in your hand, your lips pursed together in frustration.
So close. You’d been so close to just getting in your car and going home without a confrontation. But no, he couldn’t give you a single ounce of peace, could he?
With a slight turn of your head, you saw Teller sauntering across the street, flicking his cigarette carelessly over his shoulder. The corner of his lips were drawn back into a sordid grin that made your gut twist in disgust, but it was the fact that he was making a straight line towards the driver’s side of your car that made your body ignite with irritation. It only meant that he had every intention of blocking your escape, forcing you to endure another unwanted interaction with him before you could end your day.
“Lookin’ good, Peaches,” Jax called over to you.
Raising your chin indignantly at him, your jaw tightened at the way he always called you that. Princess Peach was a joke nickname that the guys you worked with at Iron Pulse had given you around the time you started. It was only due to the fact that you did two leg days a week, both heavily glute focused, and because you were obviously more feminine than them. All of you had nicknames that you playfully referred to each other as at the gym–Wade was generally known as Dorito because of his small waist and thick upperbody–but Jax had found out yours and purposefully turned it into something filthy.
“And you’re still looking like a fuckboy, fuckboy,” you countered coldly.
Jax laughed off the insult, his eyes dancing with mischief as he sidled over to your car and leaned his shoulder against the driver’s side door. His gaze openly trailed up and over your body, taking in the skin revealed by the olive green set you were wearing today–biker shorts and a fitted top with a low neckline. Your lips drew back in aversion as you stopped by the trunk of your car, feeling as if it was his hands roaming over your body instead with how he was looking at you. When his attention lingered on your bare thighs, you saw the slow roll of his tongue between his lips and you glanced down at the half-finished protein shake in your hand.
If this didn’t cost so damn much, I would douse you in it, jackass.
“Can you fuck off already?” you snapped. “I’m not really in the mood for egotistical bastards tonight. Or any night, really.”
His tongue gradually ran the length of his bottom lip as his gaze continued to wander up and over your breasts, leisurely taking his time and intentionally making you uncomfortable. Your teeth ground together as your frustration mounted, anger sparking inside of you at his openly vulgar behavior. When he did finally look up, he met your glare with a look of indifference. His head casually dipped to one side as his lips quirked in amusement, enjoying your irritation.
It shouldn’t be illegal to smash his stupid, smug face through a windshield. That should be considered a civic duty.
“What’s the rush, Peaches?” he quipped. “Got somewhere to be?”
“Yeah,” you agreed bitterly, gesturing your drink at him. “Anywhere that’s far away from the walking cancer in front of me. Move.”
His brows rose marginally upwards, but his arrogance remained intact. “Walkin’ cancer now, huh?”
“You smell like lung cancer,” you shot back, nose faintly scrunching at the scent of him. “Standing in your vicinity probably gives people lung cancer.”
Jax stared at you, shifting against the side of your car as if he was settling in for a bit. Shooting a quick glance across the street, you saw the other Sons had grown quiet. They were all still hanging around and smoking on the lot beside their clubhouse, but now they were silently watching what they could of the exchange occurring across the street with their president. Which only meant that Jax was going to act like a bigger prick on purpose, always needing to show off like he was some big shit.
Your eyes narrowed further when you spotted a familiar shaved head across the street–Juice. He’d started coming to Iron Pulse recently, having just started training with you the other week. Admittedly, you thought he seemed like a nice guy during your sessions, and you had no idea how he’d wound up involved with all these assholes. But the fact that he ignored Jax’s treatment of you had you questioning your judgement of the younger Son.
“Y’know,” Jax drawled, catching your attention again, "I guarantee you’d be less of an uptight bitch if you got properly laid. You seem overdo for a tune up.”
Eyes turning into slits at the words ‘uptight bitch’ passing over his tongue, you wished you could set him on fire with just a glare. It wasn’t the first time he’d called you that, but it never failed to make your pulse thrash in your throat and fury burn like wildfire within you.
“Someone needs to fuck the attitude outta you, Peaches,” he continued, tipping his chin at you. “It’s a shame that body is wasted on such a high-strung prude.”
“And you’re disgusting,” you spat back. “All of you are. Any self-respecting woman would never let a gross prick like you anywhere close to her.”
“That so?” he pushed.
“You’re more used up than all of the women you guys pass around combined,” you shot, squaring your shoulders. “You're a neon sign advertising STDs, Teller. There’s not a shred of you worth wanting because you’ve already given yourself to half of northern California hundreds of times over. You’ve got nothing I’d ever want.”
The condescending smirk finally vanished from his lips, and something darker and unfamiliar passed over his features instead. Jax pushed off the side of your car and you hesitated, surprised at the sudden shift in him. Normally when you both exchanged insults, he'd throw them confidently back before eventually sauntering off with a sleazy grin while leaving you internally fuming. But something felt different this time.
He took three slow, deliberate steps forward as he closed the small distance between you both. Advancing on you like a mountain lion, he moved with languid, calculated steps, giving the distinct impression that he was preparing to launch himself at you and attack. Your spine stiffened at his approach, pinned down by his weighted stare and the flicker of something heavy in it. It wasn’t until the toes of his Nikes nearly met yours that he stopped and leaned forward, intentionally invading your personal space. The scent of leather, smoke, and body spray–something warm like cedarwood–hit you hard as his face hovered directly in front of yours, making it impossible to avoid the dangerous glint in his eyes.
With your lips pressed firmly together, you glared unwaveringly back at Jax, attempting to maintain your outward composure. Though you could feel your heart wildly beating inside of your chest while your breath kept catching in the back of your throat. He'd come so close that his own warm breath fell past his parted lips, dancing over your cheek with each exhale. You could see each faint fleck of darker blue embedded in his stormy eyes as the apparent threat lingered coldly inside of them.
“You’re lucky I let you talk to me like that, darlin’,” he warned in a low rasp. “Ain’t a lotta girls who’d be stupid enough to say shit like that to my face. Even less would get away with it.”
You raised your chin again, hard stare meeting his in a challenge as you ignored the erratic thrum of your heart. “And what’re you going to do about it?” you questioned in a low hiss.
Jax shifted, and with his nose so close to yours, you couldn’t tell if the tip of it had just brushed against yours or not. You ignored the uncomfortable flip in your stomach, fighting to keep your voice level as you continued to hold your ground. The last thing you’d ever want to do was show Teller a shred of fear to latch onto, even if you could feel it running through your veins.
“Are you going to shoot me in the middle of downtown Charming, Teller? Right in broad daylight?” you pressed. “All because I won’t stand here quietly and let you objectify me like every other girl in your path?”
His nostrils flared with a sharp, irate exhale that made your heart jolt straight into your throat. Jax had never gotten this visibly pissed off before, but his anger was written in the tight lines around his eyes, the downturn curve of his lips, and the ever twitching muscle in his cheek. It appeared this time you'd finally and unexpectedly pushed on a nerve, and while satisfaction warmed your chest, a pinprick of fear squirmed in your stomach.
It didn't take much to figure out that Jax wasn’t used to being challenged by a woman, especially one who kept shooting down his advances and meeting him verbal spar for verbal spar. One of these days, you wondered if you’d push your luck fighting back against him just a little too far and he’d finally lash out at you. He was known to have a temper, and with what you were currently glimpsing, you didn't doubt the truth of that.
“Didn't think you were that sensitive.”
The jab slipped out of you before your brain to mouth filter could properly kick in and prevent you from continuing to push him. When he moved, you swore your heart stopped as all of your muscles pulled taut in anticipation of what was coming. Swallowing thickly, you felt your knees lock, but he simply leaned in even closer, his mouth hovering beside your ear before a deep warning rolled off his tongue and straight into it.
“Better watch yourself, Peaches.”
A cold chill ran through you, goosebumps lightly dappling your forearms at the whispered threat. He intentionally smacked his leather-clad shoulder right into yours as he started to make his way back across the street and towards the Sons’ compound. Stumbling back a step at the rough impact, you slowly released the quivering breath you’d unintentionally been holding. Your skin tingled with adrenaline at the shoulder check, your body reacting to the slight shove more than it had to any pre-workout you’d ever downed.
Turning your head over your shoulder, you tracked his swaggering gait as he moved across the pavement, and the urge to throw an insult at his back bubbled inside your throat. But you bit your tongue, holding the thoughts inside and resisting the desire to have the last word. It wasn't just that Jax was a waste of your time, or that arguing with him was a poor use of breath, but this confrontation with him had been a little different from the others. He'd never gotten quite so visibly riled before, and you wondered if you’d finally stopped toeing the line with him and accidentally crossed it.
Series tag list: @kmc1989 @lycanbeks92 @catswonderland @magic-sprinkled-daydreams @shiggynuggiez @rayray0171
BELLLLAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I love this!!!!!! Enemies to lovers with Jax???? Yessssss!!!! I love how she’s going back and forth with him in a way that’s so realistic. I’m also pretending that Chibs doesn’t join them in the catcalling because I feel like he’s the only one in the group with common sense. Also, Jax pissed me off with the shoulder checking. I know his momma is no good but I know damn well Gemma ain’t teach him to shoulder check a woman smh!!!
title: bedridden
pairing: leto atreides x f!reader
rating: r , explicit
summary: his eyes peel open , heavy-lidded as they rake down the salacious dip along your spine — oh , what a lovely sight to wake up to .
x-post: here .
content : leto is younger , probably in his 20s before he met lady jessica . non-canon , because canonically that man is hecking loyal to a fault . smut . mild angst . morning sex . sixty-nine . oral m!receiving . blowjob . oral f!receiving . v fingering . cunnilingus .
a/n : i be yapping again in my writing . sorry if this is such a mess , but i hope you enjoy nonetheless .
//
It is a disappointing revelation for someone like Leto to learn that he is not invincible after all.
He knew he should’ve called off the training sessions with the royal platoon, when the heavy rainstorm persists for weeks. When he finally falls sick, bedridden and stripped of any ounce of strength he has left in him to even wave for a sip of water — only then he yields; sulking in self-deprecation, berating himself on why he’d roughened it out in the pouring rain with his brothers in arms in the first place.
The only consolation he has as he writhes in his sweat-soaked bed, shaking off in vain the tremors that plague his body — is you.
You never left his side, constantly at his beck and call, big or small — for a sip of water down his parched lips, for a cold towel over his feverish head, for a warm body next to his shivering bones, for a soothing whisper to calm his delirious nerves.
You have spent sleepless nights next to him in his chamber, nursing him back to health. Until finally, this tempered morning, when his fever finally breaks, he stirs with a sleepy grunt, feeling the weight of your lithe body slither on top of his, his senses drifting awake to the soft, ebbing rainfall outside.
Usually, that would set him off, prompt him to spring from his bed and tackle the offender onto the floor. He would swipe the dagger hidden at the side drawer, and latch it onto their throat, stare deep into their eyes as rueful fear settles upon their face for even trying to usurp him.
Leto has been through enough training with his armed guards to lock himself in a constant fight mode, awakened his reflexes to protect himself from any potential threat that might befall the Duke of the venerable House Atreides.
Even in the weakened, drowsy state he is currently in, his body would rouse to attention, muscles taut and ready to fight back if he so commands.
But, it’s you — he recognises the sultry rhythm your body sways to, and the velvet glide of your skin against his. That comfortable weight that drags along his olive skin; not too heavy to suffocate him, yet enough gravitas to swaddle him snug like his nursemaid once did when he was just a babe.
You disarm him. You make him want to throw his hands up in sweet surrender. In fact, you can reach for the dagger and carve the sharp edges into the meat of his thighs, threaten to cut off his balls, henceforth severing the Atreides line forever — and he will let you.
The power you have over him, it is stronger than any mind games a Bene Gesserit witch can impose on him.
Only with you, Leto submits — as your thighs flank his forearms decisively, shackling him. As your naked crotch rubs against his chest, in parallel with his heart where it pulses mutedly under the radiating warmth of your cunt — a different kind of fever he doesn’t mind revisiting, over and over again.
He succumbs to your assertive hands sweeping up the length of his thighs, nimble fingers caressing the contours of his hipbones. He sighs in placid submission, as they slide between the mattress and his buttocks, and without so much as a struggle — none at all, lets you push his undergarment down his legs, blissful to the puffs of heated breath warming his cock, already twitching against the chilly air.
He keeps his eyes closed, pretending he is still asleep when he is already wide awake behind the shuttered lids. But, he is fooling no one — his hardon has already given him away, straining to attention of its own volition, waking up and keening to your slow, caring strokes as you rub him to a full, stiff mast.
Leto feels your lips rain kisses upon his slit, soft and soothing like the pitter-patters that rouse the pleasant smell of petrichor right outside the window — before your mouth closes over the tip, your quiet hums crooning deliciously around his girth, like you have just sampled the best foods the Caladanian chefs have to offer for the Duke’s favourite concubine — favourite lover.
His eyes peel open, heavy-lidded as they rake down the salacious dip along your spine — oh, what a lovely sight to wake up to.
He would gladly give in to whatever ailments that weaken his every sense, rid of his dominion of the Atreides armada, and render himself but a mere soldier on the brink of death — if this is what awaits him on the other side.
He basks at the sight of your plump arsecheeks moving in front of his face, brushing teasingly against the tip of his nose, riling him up to cup a feel, to touch you.
Go on, my dear Duke, you know you want to — you want him to.
So, he obeys — large hands gliding up your thighs to the globes of your cheeks, kneading lightly, firmly. You arch into his welcoming touch, pressing your crotch flush against his sternum, as you moan around him — a ricocheting effect that pulls a strangled gasp from his lungs, granting you full permission to pick up speed, to shove a few more inches of his cock into your mouth.
His eyes roll back, chin tipped skyward and nostrils flaring to grasp at the alluring scent of your sex. He can smell you now, beckoning him with a mouthwatering aroma that reminds him of seasalt but which he knows tastes like warm, sweet honey — greater than the coveted spice melange that rules kingdoms and peoples.
The mere thought of your slick hitting his tongue, it’s enough to elicit a ravenous groan from his chest, his fingers digging into your plush skin — clawing for more.
Leto hears you — gagging sloppily, so beautifully around his cock, as his fat, aching tip thrusts deeper into the heated cavern of your mouth. Your tongue is like soft satin, cushioning the base of his veined shaft. Your jaw like desperate shackles, squeezing him so lovingly when it hits the back of your throat — drawing from you a melodious choral that shoots sparks down to his belly, wringing fresh spurts of pre-cum down your throat.
Your one hand pumps affirmative strokes along the rigid length in gratitude — thankful for what he has gifted you. The other, expert fingers fondle the robust orbs, as you suckle him like the most devout, so very eager to please your Duke — your master.
Your tongue swirls in hefty stripes, stretching along his weeping cock. Your cunt grinds against his broad chest, heaving to the rhythm of his heartbeat — stealing for yourself whatever friction you need to dance to his song.
You whimper, when his hand drifts between the buried alcove of your thighs. And right there at the apex, his thumb traces reverence along your sensitive nub — softly, so terribly soft.
He feels you gush around his fingers, and with your silky smooth release, he smears coaxing circles around your clit, kindling a guttural purr against his stomach, where he feels your heart thrums with wanting ache — practically begging for the affirmation only he can provide to satiate you, make you feel seen.
Leto likes it when you beg. You rarely do that in court. You never ask for more than what you think you deserve, so stoically demure as your footsteps thread down the vaulted halls. Even when they carry you past the heavy doors into his chamber, where you look after him so diligently — in bed, in sickness and in health.
But, when you do beg, he can’t help but offer you in kind what he thinks you deserve for your loyal and honourable service — everything. He would’ve given you the world if he could. He would’ve married you tomorrow, made you his Duchess if the Mentat calculations proclaim you compatible. He would’ve loved you with his whole heart until the day he dies even if they don’t.
Alas. This is all he can give you — his fingers digging into your skin, prying open your arsecheeks for the glorious sight of your cunt, blossoming pink like the first springtime bloom in the courtyards of Castle Caladan; throbbing right in front of his eyes — calling out to him to touch you there.
So, he obliges — touches you where it hurts, eases two fingers into your puckered hole until the web of his palm kisses your lips, scissoring to spread you out like a sumptuous feast waiting to be devoured.
Your slick trickles down his wrist, your hearty moan resonates around his cock, squeezing a stringy groan from deep within him, as his eyes flutter shut to savour everything that you have to give him.
The wet, hot sludge of your pussy, dying embers rekindled around his drenched digits. And when they crook at that devastating spot inside you, massaging billowing circles with just a smidge of pressure, he feels your thighs tense up as you squirt so desperately to his come hither.
And the sound you make — mewling with your mouth so full of him, it’s ethereal music his Warmaster can never pluck from the strings of his baliset, talented as he is with the instrument.
It makes Leto want you more, frenzied fingers biting into the meat of your calves to pull you closer, until your knees are digging into his shoulders. His growing beard rutting abrasion against your inner thighs, his growling mouth finally coming in contact with your clit — he goes in for the kill.
You release his cock, crying out in sweet surprise, when his tongue nudges into you, lapping at your bundle of nerves without any ducal decorum. His large hand presses upon the small of your back, to hold you in place, pull your arched form into his labouring mouth.
He plants his feet flat on the bed, angling his cock right back into your gaping mouth, silencing your outcries to smothered whimpers. His undulating hips drive himself deeper into you, filling you to the brim as the leaking head rams against the roof of your mouth, making you gag and drool down your quivering chin in a muffling mess.
Leto hums hoarsely against your cunt when your teeth drag along the veinous ridge for purchase, for any sense of control, when you’re already squirming, already unravelling to his desired device.
He knows you are close. He feels your pussy flutter at his ministrations.
He buries his nose against you, heaving in lungfuls of your tangy scent. His tongue teasing you in a quickened momentum, slurps hungrily like a man deprived of food for days.
Your hips gyrating against his chest, matching the temptuous tempo of his fingers, prodding in and out of you —
Until you clench around him. Your whole body shivering and your nails scraping at his inner thighs as you cum. His tongue flicking at your overstimulated nub still as he carries you through the storm.
You let out a long, stifled drawl around his cock, and he harmonises with you a delectable shudder that hitches in his throat, as he drinks in every drop of your honeyed offering, like sweet medicine to cure him of this insatiable disease.
Then, he pulls away just to see your pussy dribble onto his chest, painting him a lovely sheen — making him yours.
Leto’s eyes flitter shut, as he slips his anointed fingers into his mouth, revelling in the syrupy taste of you. Your heady scent assaulting his senses, making him dizzy — damn near feral.
It is enough to galvanise him, rocking into your wailing mouth with such dire urgency, as if he’s thrusting his cock into that pretty cunt he’s just fucked till kingdom come with only his mouth and fingers.
In one little moment, it feels like the fever has returned. Hellfire burns through his screaming muscles, as cold sweat licks at his pores. The pressure low in his belly coils tight —
And then he is snarling under your captive body. Balls drawing up in your loving hold, and spilling white, hot ropes down your throat, working with such deep devotion as it bobs frantically to take in every drop he has to offer.
He hisses, fingers biting crescents into your arsecheeks, when you hollow your cheeks and suckle at his reddened tip. An encore to make sure you’ve wrung him dry without a straddling drop left.
Until you have had your claim of him — all of him.
Only then, the storm clouds pass, and the rain subsides to mere whispers. His skin cools, and the thunder in his ears dwindles — and all he can hear is the steadfast sound of your heavy breathing.
Leto feels your heartbeat normalising against his abdomen, your fingertips mapping haphazard trails along his bare legs. Pathways covert even to himself, but nonetheless surefooted in finding your way to his heart.
He turns his face against your inner thigh, impressing pliant kisses to your skin, as his hand mirrors your motion. Trying so desperately to pillage his way through the shrouded labyrinth, and finally come home to where your heart lays.
His hooded eyes keep watch of you, as you drop your head and hum against his softening cock — a song that is already fading, even before he can learn the notes, memorise the words.
In knowing that, tears brim in his eyes before he can stop himself. His hand slides up your body, rubbing soothing circles up your spine; dislodges himself from under you to align his naked form against yours — from the tips of your toes, to the curves of your waists, to the rounds of your shoulders, where he brushes his lips and tries to lay his claim of you — all of you; when in truth, he has barely enough of you to hold on to from the start.
a/n: guys i lost the post but someone had the brilliant idea of using Too Little, Too Late for a ryland angst fic and it gave me so much inspo
word count: 1.6k
tags/warnings: angst no comfort!! elementary teacher!reader, established relationship, you’re alone and Ryland just got sent to space
Fwip.
You taped up the last paper onto your wall with a swipe of your thumb. The crude drawing, surrounded by a couple dozen others just like it, depicted a familiar figure: beloved, former teacher, Ryland Grace.
But to you, he wasn’t a middle school teacher. Nor was he an outcast scientist. He was just Ryland. Your Ryland.
The words “my hero” floated above him on every paper. Like a halo. A cruel reminder that he’d never return to you.
Your classroom in Grover Cleveland Elementary was quiet. With the scribbling of crayons and the kid’s chatter gone, your only company in the empty room was silence. All of your fellow teachers left an hour ago, and your third graders had scrambled to leave long before.
The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, bathing the room in warm, golden rays. Yet, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the wall of papers.
Not when the man you loved, albeit poorly drawn, stared back at you from thirty different papers. In every single drawing, he had a huge smile on his face. You frowned looking at it.
Earlier today, you’d assigned this classic project to your students. The instructions were clear: “Who is your hero?”
In past years, most kids did their parents. Moms, dads, and the occasional superman or spiderman would fill the exact wall you stood in front of now.
But this year was different. The Hail Mary launch was only a few weeks prior, so you’d expected one, maybe two pictures of Ryland.
Yet, you greatly underestimated how enthusiastic your kids would be about space, and how a science teacher, who was formerly a part of Grover Cleveland’s staff, was on the mission.
You scanned the papers, wishing he were here next to you to admire the work. Normally, he would be, and you struggled to avoid thinking about the gaping hole in your life with him gone— No more pop in’s during your lunch breaks. No more texts in the middle of the day, asking if you guys should get takeout or cook at home for the night. No more returning home to a warm house full of life. Full of him.
You felt fresh tears springing up in your eyes, so instead, you thought about your class from today.
Excited gossip filled the room as your kids dutifully colored. You sat at your desk, grading last week’s vocab quizzes, trying hard not to think too hard about Ryland. Unfortunately for you, it was nearly impossible to ignore the rapid fire commentary happening around you.
“Mr. Grace is so cool! I want to go to space like him!”
“I wish I had him as my teacher!”
“He’s so brave, he’s definitely my hero.”
“I bet he was excited to help save the world!”
That last comment made you pause. You looked at the sweet little girl that said it, and how earnest her smile was.
She had already moved on, only meant it as a passing comment, but her words echoed in your head. Because you knew, deep in your soul, it was a lie.
Ryland had been acting strangely over the past few months. He would return home at unpredictable hours, the dark circles under his eyes progressively getting worse. All you knew was that he had been recruited as a scientist to help figure out the Petrova line problem. He couldn’t tell you much else, not just because of the NDA’s, but also because of how little he was home.
Most nights, you would try to wait up for him, but sometimes he wouldn’t even return. And when you’d wake up in the morning, bleary eyes meeting his vacant spot, your heart would twist with the bitter realization that he was barely there anymore.
You’d give anything for his side of the bed to be warm again.
When you eventually saw him a few days later, you knew something was wrong. He brushed it off as last minute experiments and late night meetings, and blindly, you’d accepted his words. You thought, surely, there must be hundreds of other scientists working on this sun dimming problem.
Ryland was just doing his part, rejoining the scientific community, and using his knowledge to help the world. And at the end of the day, he’d return to you like he always did. But never in your worst nightmares did you imagine him getting ripped away from you so suddenly and violently.
And that was the worst part. You had no notice. No time to prepare. Only immense, immediate loss and the soul crushing news that he was gone for good.
And without a doubt, you knew that your student's innocent words were false. You knew Ryland wasn’t excited to save the world, and that he didn’t sacrifice himself, because he would have come back to you. Just to hold you one last time and sear a final kiss into your skin so you’d never forget the feel of him. Hell, knowing him, he wouldn't have left in the first place.
Whatever it was, if it were truly up to him, he would have come back. That, you were sure of.
A knock on the door startled you out of your thoughts. You glanced up and saw a woman walking in, wearing all black and a grim expression to match. She had sympathetic eyes, but the weary lines of her face had clearly been an accumulation of stress over the years, hardening her exterior.
None of that mattered though. What immediately caught your attention wasn’t her looks, but what she carried— an all too familiar yellow raincoat.
You sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening when you saw it. “Where did you get that.”
She dipped her head solemnly, wasting no time in answering despite your accusatory tone, as if she was already prepared for your harsh greeting. “Eva Stratt with the Petrova task force. This was Dr. Grace’s. He would have wanted you to have it.” Her voice was punctual, like she wanted to get straight to the point. She held the jacket out, but your body refused to move.
You eyed her, the tension in the air thickening by the second. The Petrova task force. What Ryland had been working on before he abruptly got on that cursed, one way ship.
A moment of silence filled the room. Finally, you slowly met her eyes, your voice barely coming out in a whisper. “It was you. You forced him to go, didn’t you?”
She closed her eyes, a quiet sigh escaping her, and it told you all you needed to know.
You shook your head, almost disbelieving. “You murdered him.”
Eva spoke softly, like she was trying to justify her actions. “You were the greatest factor in the decision. We— I tried to come up with another solution, but there was no alternative. Dr. Grace was our only hope.” A beat of silence. “I’m sorry.”
You scoffed. “You’re not,” you laughed bitterly.
She accepted your words, not even trying to fight back. It only made you angrier. Wordlessly, she held out the jacket again, gesturing for you to take it.
You snatched the fabric from her hands, desperate to preserve any remnants of Ryland you could. It still smelled faintly of him, and the jacket wrinkled from your vise-like grip.
“The pocket.”
You glanced up at Eva, who now had her arms crossed. As she said the words, her brows scrunched up ever so slightly, like she was fighting back from showing too much emotion.
Slowly, you reached into the right coat pocket, a feeling of dread suddenly coming over you. At the very bottom, your hands wrapped around a smooth, velvet box. Your stomach dropped.
With trembling fingers, you brought the small box out, delicately setting the coat down on your desk. You knew what it was, and yet you’ve never wanted to be wrong more in your life.
You popped it open. At the sight of the small object inside, you couldn’t contain the sob that escaped you.
A simple diamond ring twinkled up at you from its snug spot. It was one clearly bought off of a teacher’s salary. Not too flashy. Made with your favorite metal. Exactly how you’d like it.
Undoubtedly from Ryland, to you.
You weren’t sure when you crumpled to the ground, or when the tears started flowing freely, or when your ragged breathing turned into choked sobs. All you could think to do was clutch the precious band in your fingers, wishing with your entire being that none of this was real.
But all you felt was a gaping hole in your chest. He had been so close. So close to tying the knot and allowing you to take his last name, ensuring your lives would be intertwined.
But no. Your future, the one that included Ryland, had been irrevocably altered. By fate, the universe, Eva Stratt. It didn't matter who did it, just that it had been done.
Eva couldn’t watch anymore. She knew as soon as she found the ring that she would deliver it to you— it was meant to be yours, after all. Only the person meant to give it to you would be different. She'd decided the sooner the better, and now, the deed was done.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Grace.”
Eva dipped her head and left. She didn’t say anything more, and she wasn’t even sure if you heard her. She simply closed the door with a soft click, muffling your sobs from the rest of the world.
You’re not sure how long you sat there, grieving the man that got torn away from you before he could even propose. Really, it didn't matter how many hours you'd spend on the cold floor of your dark classroom, or how many times you could exhaust your eye sockets of tears.
All the time in the world would never be able to heal what you'd lost.
"whisper vows, I'll never say to you ... cause it's too little, all too late" ♬⋆.˚
summary: the four times Ryland’s students questioned his relationship with you, and the one time they got an answer
word count: 2.7k
warnings/tags: your students play matchmaker and love gossiping, ryland owns a car here, pureee fluff
The first time was what initially caught his students’ attention.
Teenagers, albeit being annoyingly nosy, were also incredibly perceptive. And unfortunately for Ryland, about ten heads snapped up in his direction as he emerged from your classroom five minutes before lunch was going to end.
He held the door open, his body halfway out the threshold, yet still thoroughly engrossed in whatever conversation he was having with you. Even from thirty feet away, his students could see as clear as day that he did not want to leave.
And then, you appeared at the door. You playfully shooed him out, lips turning upwards into a smile, making some witty comment that the kids were too far away to hear. He said something in response, eliciting a small laugh from you as you took yet another step closer, nearly toe to toe with him.
Now, even more kids had their full, undivided attention on you, closely monitoring your little interaction while their food went cold. To them, getting to witness their teachers’ love lives unfurl was infinitely better than eating a stale peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
The most peculiar thing was Ryland’s reaction to your close proximity. His students watched in amazement as their favorite clumsy, shy, nerdy science teacher who often tripped over his own two feet seemed entirely unaffected by the fact that you were a few inches away from his face. In fact, he might have leaned in.
Olivia rubbed her eyes and squinted, not even trying to disguise her blatant staring at this point. Before she could check again, Ryland was already speed walking back to his classroom, no doubt hustling to prepare the science lab he had planned for today before the flood of kids came back from lunch.
She turned back to her classmates, many of which were still watching his retreating figure. Others had their eyes trained on your classroom door, lost in thought.
She started the conversation everyone was itching to have. “So, we all saw that, right?”
A chorus of agreement echoed amongst the small crowd, quickly devolving into hushed gossip and frantic whispers.
“Is it just me, or did Mr. Grace have a little more pep in his step just now?”
“Oh totally— and he definitely didn’t want to leave her classroom.”
“What about her? Did you guys see the smile she gave him?”
“What about the smile he gave her?”
Before the debate could continue, the bell rang, forcing the chatty kids to trudge back to their classes in unanimous disappointment at their conversation getting interrupted. Unbeknownst to you or Ryland, this was only the first of many times this hot topic would be brought up amongst your prying students.
— - — - —
The second time was during a school assembly.
Students and faculty alike were gathered in the multi-purpose room, with the kids sitting to face the stage and the teachers lining the walls of the large room. The principal, an abysmally monotonous man, continued to drone on about rules, regulations, and upcoming events, much to everyone’s disappointment.
Your kids were supposed to be paying attention, but a large number of them had their heads twisted in awkward positions, trying to sneak a glimpse of you and Ryland.
The two of you were standing in the back with less than a foot of distance separating you. Periodically, Ryland would lean down to whisper in your ear, making you giggle at his words. In turn, you’d reach up on your tiptoes to whisper something in response, and he’d nod with a soft smile.
A few teachers nearby shot you looks of disapproval for being disruptive, and you mouthed a quick apology to your peers. Not thirty seconds later though, your head was inadvertently turning back to Ryland, and he did the exact same.
Despite being told off not a minute earlier, the two of you continued to talk in hushed voices, trying to be even more discreet than before. Honestly, you guys might’ve been worse than the children.
James, a particularly rowdy student in Ryland’s class, turned to Sarah, who could easily match Olivia’s smarts in your English class. Both of their watchful eyes never left the two of you at the back of the room. He murmured to her, “I get it’s cramped, but they definitely don’t need to be standing that close.”
“Agreed,” she muttered back.
Olivia wasn’t far, and decided to join in on the conversation. “Mr. Grace is totally blushing every time she reaches up to whisper in his ear.” She had no qualms about exposing her science teacher, which made James and Sarah unexpectedly laugh.
Before they could get out another word, the meanest, crankiest teacher to ever curse Grover Cleveland Middle School with her presence snapped her head towards them, shushing them ten times louder than they were speaking.
“If you three don’t stop talking, it’ll be detention for a week,” she snarled, beady eyes watching them like a hawk.
Regretfully, they clamped their mouths shut, but the three of them, along with everyone else that had been watching you and Ryland, were all thinking the same: you two seemed awfully close, both physically and socially.
— - — - —
The third time took place after school, during the murky month of December.
The San Francisco weather decided to attack the school with an onslaught of rain, making it almost impossible to walk in the open without getting assaulted by vicious pellets of water.
A cluster of students huddled inside the safety of the school building, waiting for their parents to roll up to the front of the campus so they wouldn’t get completely drenched on their way to the car.
Olivia, while looking through the window at the dismal conditions outside, noticed you standing under an overhang alone. You had your coat drawn tight around you, trying to keep the frigid air out and your body heat in, and your eyes periodically wandered to the screen of your phone, like you were waiting for someone. Perhaps someone was coming to pick you up?
Before she could continue that thought, a familiar teacher’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts.
“Hey kiddos,” Ryland waved to the small group as he approached. “Waiting for parents?”
He was met with a series of nods, making him crack a smile. “Alright, make sure you all get home safe, yeah?”
“Yes, Mr. Grace,” some students said in unison.
Ryland chuckled and continued towards the door, raising his hand as a silent goodbye. With his other hand, he carried an umbrella, well prepared for the harsh rain.
Most of her peers looked away as Ryland pushed the door open, but Olivia kept her eyes trained on her teacher. As soon as he stepped outside, he made a beeline for you, already starting to open the umbrella.
He must have called out your name, because you turned to greet him, perking up with a warm smile. An easy conversation flowed between the two of you as he made his way over, but the next part made Olivia’s jaw drop.
Like clockwork, the two of you set off towards the parking lot, sharing the umbrella without missing a beat of your conversation. Ryland’s larger frame made you seem small in comparison, and he was mindful to keep the umbrella lower and slightly more on your side, ensuring you were fully protected from the rain. His left shoulder, on the other hand, started to get slightly wet, but he seemed to pay no mind as he listened to you talk with a genuine smile.
“Guys. Guys!! Look!” was all Olivia managed to say before a horde of students rushed to the window, trying to get a better view of their favorite teachers recreating this classic romance trope.
“Move, I can’t see ‘em!”
“Hey you’re shoving me!”
Then, a collective hush fell over the group, and Olivia craned her head around her peers to get a glimpse at what they were staring at. A small gasp escaped her too.
It was difficult to see due to the far distance and the reduced visibility in the rain, but it was unmistakable. There was Ryland, covering you with the umbrella as you got into the passenger seat of a car. After closing the door behind you, the science teacher walked around the front of the car, got into the driver’s seat, and slowly reversed out of the parking spot.
He wasn’t just walking you to your car. He was driving you home.
The silence lasted a moment longer before the group erupted into excited chatter, each kid trying to talk over the other.
“What the hell was that??”
“He offered her a ride home, obviously! It’s raining hard, so he’s being a gentleman!”
“They seemed so comfortable with each other though, what’s that about?”
“What if they’re dating?”
That last question caught everyone’s attention. Sure, it had definitely crossed everyone’s minds, but most brushed it off. It seemed unfathomable. Could their beloved, klutz of a science teacher really pull someone as gorgeous as you?
“No no,” someone finally cut in. “Mr. Grace wouldn’t have the guts to ask her out in the first place.”
“Yeah,” another chimed in. “Maybe he’s just crushing on her!”
A chorus of awww’s resounded throughout the room, and the debate of your relationship status was momentarily settled.
— - — - —
The fourth time shattered all of their conspiracy theories of Mr. Grace merely pining over their English teacher, because it was clearly something more.
It was finally that time of the year— prom. Most kids stood in clusters with their friends, while other, braver souls worked up the nerve to ask their crush to dance. The low lighting provided a moody atmosphere despite the upbeat party music, and compliments were constantly getting thrown around over dresses, shoes, and hair-dos. A typical middle school dance.
Of course, all school events required supervision, so you and Ryland volunteered to chaperone this year. You guys were standing in the back of the room, looking like you were engaged in normal conversation. You in a modest black dress, Ryland in a simple dress shirt and tie.
What you didn’t know though, were the dozen or so pairs of eyes locked onto your figures from the opposite wall, hidden in shadow and whispering furiously.
“Dude, look at the way he stares at her!”
“He’s so in love.”
“Quit staring so hard, they’ll notice you.”
Meanwhile, you and Ryland were casually chatting away, completely oblivious to your students’ antics.
You sucked in a breath, a little hesitant to bring up something that’s been gnawing away at your mind for the past few months. Ryland, as always, immediately noticed. “What is it?” he asked.
“Oh, I dunno,” you sighed.
He gave you an expectant look, silently questioning if you really thought he wouldn’t notice something’s been bothering you. It was true— no one could read you as easily as Ryland.
“Fine fine,” you smiled, “it’s just… have you noticed our kids acting a little, um,”
“Weird?” he finished with a knowing look.
“Exactly. Recently, if we’ve been talking, I’ll turn away from our conversation and find a handful of students staring at me from across campus. It’s unsettling.” You shuddered just thinking about it.
“I get it,” Ryland agreed while surveying the area. His eyes met the small group of kids that had been staring at you guys, all of whom were now looking at the ceiling, the ground, each other— anywhere other than in your direction. It was painfully obvious. You shared a look with Ryland, both of you shaking your heads before bursting into laughter.
Suddenly, a slow song came on, and you turned to Ryland with a soft smile. He was quick to offer his hand, which you accepted with a mock curtsy. In your little corner, the two of you swayed to the soft melody, lost in your own little world. All that mattered in the moment was the feeling of each other’s arms and the warmth of your shared love.
As you let the rhythm wash over you, you turned to Ryland, voice barely above a whisper. “You think they’re watching?”
“Oh I know they’re watching,” he huffed.
You let out a small giggle, amused by how involved your students were in your relationship. Brushing off the thought, you decided to just let teenagers be teenagers, instead focusing your attention on the way Ryland’s strong hands held your own.
And your students on the other side of the room? They were going ballistic while watching you.
“So he really pulled her? They’re dating?!”
“This is insane.”
“Someone needs to document this.”
“Why are they so cute??”
— - — - —
The school year was finally coming to a close, and everyone agreed they simply couldn’t leave the case of you and Mr. Grace unsettled. After much deliberation amongst the class, they all came to the consensus that today was the day. They were going to get answers out of you guys, whether you liked it or not.
They went to great lengths to corner the two of you. Olivia planted a note in your class, trying her best to mimic Mr. Grace’s handwriting: Meet me in my class after school.
You didn’t think much of the forged note. Ryland often slipped you random things, so you folded it up and tucked the parchment away, packing up to head over to his class like you often did.
In Ryland’s classroom on the other hand, he was wrapping up a lecture on cell anatomy just as the final bell rang. He clapped once, starting to erase the whiteboard. “Alright kiddos, we’ll finish this up tomorro—”
As he turned around, he was more than a little stunned to see his entire class still seated, desks cleared and their full attention bouncing between him and the door.
“Oookay, what’s going on,” he said slowly, trying to follow their gaze. “Did I imagine the bell ringing, or..?”
And then, when you walked in, it all clicked for Ryland. He turned to his students, gaze sweeping over their smug smiles and looks of anticipation.
You gave a little knock to signal your entry, “Hey Ry, you wanted to see...” you trailed off, noticing about thirty kids staring at you when you entered. You slowly made your way to his side, watching the class with a glimmer of amusement in your eyes. “What’ve we got here?”
“This is a set up,” he sighed. Not a question, but an observation. He placed his hands on his hips and tilted his head, unsure of whether to smile or frown, so he opted for shaking his head in disbelief.
As the designated question asker, Olivia raised her hand, and Ryland nodded in confirmation for her to speak. “When did you start dating?”
They expected flustered denial, a poor cover up story, or for you guys to dodge the question completely. But to everyone’s shock, you and Ryland turned to each other simultaneously… and started laughing.
“Wh— What’s so funny?” James asked.
“Yeah, haven't you been trying to hide it this whole year?” another chimed in.
You waved your arms dismissively, shoulders still shaking with laughter. “Well, not exactly.”
Ryland just pinched the bridge of his nose, still in disbelief that his students thought you were dating.
“So, what’s your relationship then?” Olivia asked. Everyone leaned in, awaiting your response.
With a sly smile, you glanced at Ryland, then looked over the group of teens practically about to fall out of their seats in anticipation. “Well,” you started. “Let’s just say… I use my maiden name while teaching.”
Olivia let out a huge gasp, and the others whipped their heads toward her, clearly still confused.
“What?”
“Olivia, what’s that mean?”
Kids were clambering to get her attention, but Olivia just continued to stare at you in shock, and you just gave her a small nod of encouragement. Slowly, you reached to interlock hands with Ryland, and he squeezed your fingers with affection. He turned to give you a helpless smile, like he was silently apologizing for his students’ behavior. You just softly chuckled, choosing to lean your head on his shoulder instead.
“You— she—” Olivia could barely get the words out.
Her peers groaned in frustration, “what is it?!”
Then, you dropped the equivalent of an atomic bomb in the middle of the room— you raised your left hand, flashing a modest diamond ring adorning your finger.
Everyone was stunned, and Olivia confirmed what they were all struggling to believe.
“It means,” she said slowly, “Her last name is Grace.”
a/n: it might be kinda unrealistic for them not to notice your wedding bands but let’s just go along with it... as always, thanks for reading !!
you and ryland are trying for a baby, you know what that’s means?
a/n: hey I hope this isn’t weird. also not proof read!
“oh gosh! give me a minute!” Ryland groans, his refusal to swear making his statement sound very unserious. you sit up, hair a mess and your breath heavy. “baby we have to, we can’t miss the opportunity!” you argue. ryland looks down at his his dick, it’s so sensitive and the tip is smeared in minute old cum. with a soft grunt he rolls back ontop of you.
you’ve spent the last month fucking like rabbits in an attempt of getting pregnant. even in his more promiscuous years in college he never spent this much time inside a women. day and night, not that he’s complaining but god it’s times like this that prove that he’s not the young man he once was.
“okay… woah, just need to catch me breath” he chuckles, reaching his hand down to lift up your right thigh. he lifts and spreads your leg, revealing your pussy that’s already dripping with his cum. he groans under his breath, he never really realised how hot seeing you filled with his cum was until this whole pregnancy thing started. he was always a one for condoms and ‘safe sex’.
his free hand grabs his base and guides his dick back to your entrance. he winces softly as the warmth, so sensitive. “you okay hon?” you ask softly, hand stroking his hair. he nods his head and pushes forward, entering his dick into your cum filled snatch. his body tenses at the very familiar feeling and his hips buck.
“oh f- gosh… you want more cum baby?” he manages between groans. you bite your bottom lip and nod your head, hands sliding to his shoulders. your blue nails dig into his shoulder blades, silently encouraging him to keep fucking his cum deeper into you.
there’s something about the way that ryland fucks you when he’s sensitive that drives you crazy. how he goes deep and slow, it makes your stomach cramp and your head spin. his hand spreads your thighs further, trying to get as deep as possible, trying to push his cum further and further in hopes of a happy little accident.
“hon? get me close with you?” you ask, he nods quickly. you don’t even have to ask twice. you slides one of his hands to your clit, large thumb beginning to rub your bundle of nerves in tight circles. your brows scrunch and your mouth falls open, moans falling out uncontrollably.
his orgasm begins to build quickly, it always does when he sees you enjoying yourself around his dick. his head dips down, lips attaching onto your neck. “Jesus… Jesus sweetheart” he grunts.
finally he slams his hips against your one last time. he cums again, filling you with more of his sticky mess. your orgasm hits you with his finale thrust, his fingers slow down on your clit until they come to a halt. he shudders and collapses on top of you, keeping his dick deep in you.
Fandom: Triple Frontier
Pairing: Santiago "Pope" Garcia/f!reader
word count: 9.7k
rated: Mature for sex and cursing
Description: You haven't spoken to Pope in a year since he dumped you. But when he calls asking for help you agree. Can you rescue your missing friend and find out why Pope left?
The phone number on your phone isn't familiar, but you're waiting on a food delivery so you answer it.
Rookie mistake.
"Don't hang up."
Fucking Pope.
"Give me one reason not to."
"Benny is missing."
You pause. It's probably the only thing he could have said that would keep you on the line and he knows it.
"If you are fucking with me, Pope I will close all of your credit cards and donate your life savings to PETA."
Your heart rate is already thrumming, the spike a clear sign that you don't really think he's dumb enough to make that joke.
"I really wish I was. We could use your help."
If it was anyone else you might have told him to paddle with his hands. But Benny was the only one who stayed in touch after Santiago unceremoniously dumped you without so much as a single word of explanation. The rest of the guys, Frankie, Tom, Will, they all made it clear they were team Garcia. But Benny, pure of heart, remembers your birthday. Still makes plans with you when he's in town. Never (ever) mentions Santiago by name.
"Where are you?"
"I'll send you our location through secured server. Get here as soon as you can and bring your gear."
A moment after he hangs up the door bell rings and your phone buzzes. The address is a two hour drive, you know it well. You can eat in the car.
The safe house is a shitty looking trailer that nobody would think to look at twice if they happened this far from the main road, which no one does. It was an oft used location to meet at when you used to work with Pope and the guys. Off the book mission the government would deny any knowledge of even if that is where the funding flowed from. It would take someone with your particular skill set to figure that out and you were paid well enough not to look. You park the car a mile away near a commonly used hiking trail. Your backpack contains your computer, an external power source, a scrambler, a signal scanner, and a booster. Plus a toothbrush and a change of underwear.
You hike through the backwoods, a trail that’s been overgrown a 100 times over but still gets you to where you need to be. Before you’re within 50 feet of the trailer the door opens and Tom is standing there, firearm pointed in your direction.
“Exactly the welcome I was hoping for.”
Tom lowers his gun.
“Good to see you, Charlie.”
Charlie is a nickname, or maybe a call sign, though you’re not sure you earned that.
For the first seven months you worked with the guys you were nothing but a disembodied voice on a com giving them assignments and opening doors (literal and figurative) for them. Santiago came up with the name. You were Charlie and they were your angles. It stuck even after you started getting sent on missions with them. Even after Pope started making excuses to hang back after the mission was over. Hotel rooms booked under fake passports that you holed up in for a few precious hours, fucking on squeaky beds and rickety desk chairs.
“Redfly.”
He opens the crooked screen door wide so you can enter. Inside, Will, Frankie, and Pope are huddled around a small table with a map spread out over it. All three of them look at you. Will is the first to move. To your surprise he wraps you in a hug.
“Thanks for coming, Charlie. You don’t know how much I appreciate it.”
You nod against his shoulder until he releases you.
“I’m sure Ben just lost his cell phone in the local brothel. We’ll find him.”
The tight smile says he doesn’t believe that. Neither do you.
You nod once at Frankie. “Fish.” Is all you say to acknowledge his presence. You don’t look at Pope.
“So, fill me in.”
One Year Ago
“Confirm your location, over.”
“Alpha team in position, over.”
“Delta team in position, over.”
“You will have three and a half minutes from my countdown to secure the package and get out before you have company. Coms will go silent. You will have to clear 50 yards from the building perimeter before you have com access again. Does everyone understand? Over.”
One by one they confirm. Pope last.
“See you on the other side, Charlie.”
“Happy hunting, angels. You’re clear in three, two, one, over.”
The doors to the facility unlock, the cameras shut down, the alarms are disabled and the signal jammer you installed there yesterday triggers, guaranteeing that no one inside the building can call out for reinforcements when they realize the building’s security has just been compromised. However, the security system is on a loop, it pings the other facilities every three minutes. When that doesn’t happen, big men with guns get sent to lock down the building. It takes forty-five seconds. You know because you did a dry run of this five months ago in preparation for this mission.
You wait back in the safe house, tapping your fingers nervously on a formica kitchen table. The countdown on your computer screen drawing ever closer to zero. The numbers go red and start counting negative. Your foot starts to tap too.
The thing is, there’s nothing you can do. If no one pings you on coms you have to assume the mission is compromised. Your only course of action is to pack up and get the hell out. There’s no extraction team coming. No back up. No plan B.
At negative thirteen seconds your com buzzes.
“Charlie, this is Redfly. Package acquired. All members of Alpha and Delta teams accounted for, over.”
You take a subtle breath.
“Roger that, Redfly. Good work, angels. Meet you at the rendezvous, over.”
Now all you have to do is wait. Redfly and Ironhead will get the package to the drop. Pope, Fish, and Benny will make their way to you, one at a time, each taking a different, circuitous route.
Pope arrives first. It’s not an accident.
“We have exactly forty-five minutes before Benny shows up,” Pope says as he drops his gear by the door. He wastes not a single minute of it. He backs you into one of the bedrooms, pulling off your clothes, his need to feel your lips on his the only thing slowing him down. The adrenalin of a mission always drives his need for you, though, recently, you’ve been noticing something more.
“Full disclosure,” Pope says as he spreads you legs wide on the bed. “The condoms I have with me are expired.”
His fingers drag through your center. You arch, needing him closer even as he slides a finger inside you.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t notice until after I was on the plane and then it was too late.”
“It’ll be fine,” you assure him. And even if wasn’t you’re not sure you would care at this exact moment.
He leans over you, your thighs bracketing his hips. Dark eyes drawing closer to you until his tongue is in your mouth. He grinds against your with his sheathed cock. Your pussy flutters, desperate to be filled.
“Are you sure?” He asks, forehead pressed against yours, his cock teasing at your entrance.
You wrap your fingers around him and guide him in.
He lets out a sound half way between a groan and a laugh.
"I guess that's a yes."
"Thirty-two minutes, Pope," you say after looking at your watch.
He thrusts into you, holding himself just above your chest. The kiss is soft, almost impossibly slow, like he might just do this for 32 minutes. And if you weren't on the clock, and if your body wasn't burning with need, maybe you would let him take all the time he wanted. Instead, your hips move underneath him, muscles contracting and squeezing. He follows your tempo, your bodies colliding, the only sound in the room the meeting of your flesh and the rocking of the wood-framed bed.
It's been just over a year since you started this, whatever this is. At first it was simple. Pope was a flirt, incorrigible, really. One night, after a few drinks, when the rest of the squad had gone off to bed, you just gave into it. Into him. It was easy, uncomplicated. He never changed the way he treated you when the others were around. Followed your instructions to a T when on mission. And then, when it was just the two of you, he would take you apart. He would look at you like no one else existed. All of the focus that made him a good soldier made him and even better lover.
He finishes moments after you do. He's quick to disentangle himself and throw away the condom, being careful to bury it in the garbage where attentive eyes won't see it. Before you can sit up to get dressed he's pushing you back into the mattress and wrapping his naked body around you.
"We still have ten minutes."
He skin is warm on yours. The rough edges of his jawline scratch against your neck where he has buried his face. Easier to deny the reality of your situation, you suppose. You let him stay. Would let him stay longer if it were just up to you. But you don't want the complication of the others finding out. Because if the higher ups find out they'll assign you to a different team. And while you don't think any of the guys would tattle on you (well, maybe Will) you don't want to put anyone in a compromising situation.
So this thing, whatever it is, stays between you and Pope.
"I want to see where you live."
You lift your head, forcing Pope to look at you.
"What did you say?"
"I want to see where you live," he repeats.
You let your head fall back to the mattress and you stare up at the ceiling.
"It's not very impressive. A small house on a block of other small houses."
"Yeah, but it's yours and I want to know what its like."
You have follow up questions, but you know Benny will be here any moment.
"Okay."
Pope sits up, a smile on his face like he just won an argument. He kisses you again before he gets up to get dressed. You watch him, amazed at how he looks the same but somehow everything has changed.
Present Day
You rub your eyes, the strain behind them from staring at your computer screen for too long finally forcing you to pause.
"Here."
Pope sets a mug down next to you.
"I don't think I can consume anymore caffeine."
"I know, it's herbal tea."
You look up to find his worried face staring back.
"Thank you."
Its the longest conversation you've had since you arrived three hours ago.
Ironhead did most of the talking since he seemed to have the most information. Ben had taken a job with a crew, private ops, lead by James Butler. You all knew Butler from previous work, which is how you all knew he is a pompous, self-righteous, asshole who couldn't plan a mission to the grocery store for snacks. Will begged Ben not to go but Ben shrugged him off.
"Butler's not so bad. Besides, it's a simple snatch and grab. Could probably do it with a team of monkeys."
And maybe that is what he was working with because within 24 hours of touching down in San Jose, Ironhead had lost contact with him. According to him, he should have been state side yesterday.
Will had looked right at you.
"You know Ben, he wouldn't go radio silent for no reason."
You were bound to agree with him. Ben would find a way to call, if for no other reason than to keep his big brother from flying down to Costa Rica and searching for him.
So you got to work. The private ops company who was running this shit show was a joke. You were behind their firewall in under ten minutes, you know paranoid gamers with more secure setups. You got mission plans, lodging, travel arrangements. Shit, this idiot had made a dinner reservation for the night they arrived under his own name. You tracked their coms to a small town in the Limón Provence right on the border with Panama at the edge of the national forest.
You talked them through all of this information and set up a satellite loop to continuously ping their last known com signal. Then the four of them bent over a map, started making plans and calling in favors. You kept working, searching for out of phase communications and hidden packets of data in otherwise unsuspicious messages.
"We're going to head out. We got a lift from a private not far from here. Thanks to you, we know where to start." Pope was still standing over you.
You put your tea down and close your laptop.
"I'm coming," you say as you stand.
Pope looks back at Will.
"We got it from here," Ironhead assures you.
But you've already made up your mind. You start putting everything into your pack.
"He has a 24 hour head start on you. I can get you closer if I'm down there."
Pope opens his mouth, the objection clear on his face without his words.
"I'm coming," you say again. "Ben would do this for me."
And maybe you emphasize Ben just a little bit. Sure, none of these assholes would save you from Panamanian gun runners, but Ben would hack his way through miles of untamed jungle for you. This is the least you can do for him.
Pope looks at Ironhead one last time for reinforcements. But Will just shrugs and hikes his bag on to his back.
"Let's go."
One Year Ago
You never thought much about your home. Considering how much you travelled for work, sometimes it felt more like a hotel then a home. But now you're looking at it through Pope's eyes. The photos on the wall of you and your sister. Another one from when you were a child with both your parents. A painting hung above the couch that you bought at a gallery in Oaxaca. A small statue made from white jade from a bazar in Marrakesh. The crochet throw blanket that your grandmother made when you were a baby that adorns the back of your couch. All of it paints a life. Your life.
Pope takes all of it in. Studying, carefully. It's been almost six weeks since you were last with him on a mission. You thought he would forget about his request to see where you live. A post-sex moment of softness that he would quickly regret. But two weeks later he called and held you to it.
Now you realize, with him here, you're not sure how to act. Outside of this moment you've always been sneaking around. A countdown ticking the minutes away until one of you had to leave. On to the next mission, the next job, the next gig.
Finally, Pope turns toward you, sly grin on his face as he wraps his arms around your waist.
"Do you have a good takeout spot near here?"
His lips find your neck, his tongue darting out to lick the sensitive skin there.
"There's a good Thai place."
The words are soft, half spoken as your body reacts to Pope. He pulls you flush to him, palms sliding down to your ass.
"Excellent, then we have no reason to leave this house all weekend."
He smiles as he maneuvers you down to the couch, tugging off your shorts and underwear as he goes. Without another word he settles himself between your legs, gripping your thighs to open you wide so he can takes his mouth to your center. He works slow, teasing his tongue through your folds, taking the time he never gets to on missions. He builds you up, your muscles burning with tension as you try to move underneath him, but his hands grip you tight, refusing to give you control.
"Pope," you whine, the sound desperate and undignified.
"Don't call me that," he whispers against you.
The request is so quiet you almost miss it. Your head is so foggy with desire it takes you a moment to understand what he wants.
"Santi," you say. Soft and aching. You fingers grip his hair, thick and black between your fingers.
He growls, the sound vibrates against you. You're so close. You beg him, hips desperate for just a little more friction until finally he gives in. His tongue moving fast against you until you break. A cry that sounds like his name. He laps at you as you shudder through your orgasm.
He crawls up your body, sucking on the soft skin of your stomach and breasts until he arrives at your lips. His are swollen and wet, his tongue tastes like you as it enters your mouth.
There is a part of you that wonders why it took so long to do this. Be together outside the confines of the mission. But there’s another part that wonders why this is happening at all.
The first time you slept with Pope you were sure it would be a one time thing. Men like him aren’t interested in relationships. They just have a scratch to itch and you were the closest set of finger nails. You were okay with that. But each time he came back into your orbit he found a way to be alone with you. And each time you would learn a little more about each other. He told you about his sister and his two nephews who never gave her any peace. He told you about meeting Frankie in basic and the bond they shared over deadbeat dads. He told you he loved to cook, his favorite movie was A Few Good Men, he could play the guitar.
Without you realizing it was happening, you were falling in love.
Present Day
The cargo plane gets you to San Jose. From there, Ironhead has a van waiting for you to take you south toward the Panama border. It’s a windowless transport van without seats in the back. Out of chivalry, they offer you the front seat. You tell them it makes more sense for Pope and Fish to take the front since they’re both fluent in Spanish and you have work to do that might arouse suspicion if you’re up front. They agree with you logic. Or they’re just used to doing what you tell them from previous missions. Either way, you find yourself on the uncomfortable floor of a transport van with Ironhead and Redfly for the next three hours.
You ignore their silence and get to work. Piggybacking off a wireless network you check back into the search algorithm you initiated before you left the States.
“I got something,” you say as you begin to download communications between two outposts of the syndicate Benny and his crew were going after. You run them through a translation app so you can read them first.
You tap on the sliding door that separates the front of the van from where you’re sitting.
Pope opens it, turning to look at you.
“I’m sending you encrypted communication. I have a translation, but there's dialect and I don't know how accurate it is.”
Pope nods at you.
“What does the translation say?”
Ironhead is leaning forward. You know he’s nervous. You know because the expression on his face is one you’ve never seen before.
“I want Pope and Fish to confirm—"
"Charlie, tell me what it says.”
You look up at Ironhead. His steel gray eyes hold your gaze.
“It confirms Benny’s unit infiltrated the compound. But it sounds like they were expected and ambushed. Out of the five unit members, two were killed and three are being held. There’s no information on their status other than they’re alive.”
You says this as clinically as possible. You don’t offer an assurance that one of the two men killed wasn’t Benny.
Pope sticks his head through the opening.
“I can confirm that’s what it says.”
Ironhead nods once. “This is still a rescue mission.”
Redfly squeezes his shoulder. “Damn straight it is.”
“I think I can triangulate the location of the compound that Benny’s unit is in. I just need a little more time.”
What you don’t take into account is what riding in the back of a van with no shocks and no seats while trying to stare at a computer screen is going to do with your body. You make it twenty miles before you need Fish to pull over and let you out to puke.
Redfly gives you water and crackers from his pack when you get back in the van. He even gives you a sympathetic smile.
“The first time I hitched a ride on a frigate to an undisclosed location in the middle east, I puked for three days straight,” he confides.
Ironhead laughed at the memory.
“I thought we were going to have to airlift him out of there with an IV in his arm.”
“I imagine the open ocean is a bit bumpier than this,” you say, refusing to let yourself off the hook.
“Not really,” Redfly says.
You appreciate their camaraderie even more when, after another thirty miles you need to pull over again.
This time Pope gets out of the van. You’re leaning on a tree about thirty feet from the road washing your mouth out with water.
“You okay?”
You spit the water out of your mouth.
“Peachy.”
“We can stop for a bit. Let you take a break. I know these roads are tough.”
You’re not looking at him. You don’t want to see the pity on his face. Or worse, the condemnation for insisting on coming along just to hold them back.
“No, I’m fine. We have to keep going. Benny is waiting for us.”
“Benny is tough, he’ll be okay.”
You know Benny is tough. You know because you ran enough missions with him to know he didn’t flinch. You also know the version of him that would come over and crash on your couch and eat popcorn and watch The Golden Girls with you when you were having a bad day. That version of the man can’t wait for your stupid stomach to get it’s shit together.
“I’m fine.”
You turn to head back to the van without realizing how close behind your Pope is standing. You end up walking right into him, already unsteady on your feet. He grabs you to keep you standing.
“Fine?”
“Yes,” you say stepping away from him and his grip. “And if I wasn’t, you aren’t they one I’d be coming to for help.”
You’re surprised with how hard that lands. The hurt on Pope’s face is obvious. He looks down to keep you from noticing but he can’t hide it fast enough. You don’t know why it makes you feel bad. After all, he’s the one that left you.
One Year Ago
Soft morning light spills out through the crack where your curtains don't quite meet. But that's not what wakes you up. Santi's fingers are tracing slowly down your bare stomach. His fingertips gently pressing into the flesh around your hip bones. The sensation is just enough to makes you sigh and roll sleepily toward him. His fingers continue their caress, so light that you think you might fall back asleep, your face pressed against his chest. But then he says your name, your real name, not the nickname you've become accustomed to answering to. It falls from his lips as he pulls you even closer to him.
You like the way his voice sounds in the morning. You like the way his skin feels pressed against yours. The way he slowly lifts your leg around his hip and his fingers brush your center.
“Santi?”
Your voice is barely more than a whisper. Your hips roll lazily against his hardness, trapped between your bodies.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Fuck me.”
You can't see his face but you can hear the smile on his lips.
“Oh, I see. My baby likes it a little nasty in the mornings?”
You nod against his chest, your eyes still closed to the day.
Santi reaches behind him for a condom. You hear him tear open the wrapper. You feel his hand snake between your bodies.
Then he’s rolling you on to your stomach and letting his weight press you into the mattress. He drags your hands above your head, trapping them there, wrists bound between his fingers. His hard cock sits nestled between your ass cheeks. It should feel overwhelming. Confining. But it doesn’t. You just feel safe underneath him. You know without a doubt that everything he does will be to make you feel good.
He shifts down just enough to plunge his cock into your wet pussy. Without pausing he begins hard, shallow thrusts, never quite pulling out, just hammering against that sensitive spot inside you. Your moans are muffled by the pillow your face is pressed into but they're enough to urge Santi on. His pace picks up. His breath is heavy against your ear.
"Pussy feels so good, baby. Wanna fuck it every morning, make it mine."
Santi's words burn through you. The edge of your orgasm throbbing at your core. Your fingers curl around his, nails digging into his flesh. He squeezes your hip with his free hand, a low growl vibrating off your neck. Your breath is caught in your chest as your muscles coil tighter and tighter until, finally, you snap. The air punches from your lungs and you cry out your pleasure.
Santi lets out a strangled sound as he follows you over the edge. His body weighs heavy on yours for a moment before he rolls over.
You turn your head to look at him. He's staring up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling as he pulls in air.
"Every morning should start like that," he says.
He looks over at you. The smile across his face infects you. You wish you could start every morning with it also. You swallow down that thought, too sentimental for the moment.
"You inviting yourself over again?" You ask instead.
"You love having me here."
He reaches over and pinches your side. You squeak and move away but not fast enough. He rolls overs and pulls you toward him, traps you against his body and nibbles on your neck. No matter how much you squirm and laugh he won't let you go.
"You have such a crush on me," he teases.
You don't deny it.
Finally he releases you and heads into the bathroom to dispose of the condom. You catch your breath while he's gone. Laying on your back and staring at the closed bathroom door. You still can't believe that he's here.
After a few minutes he comes out. Something has changed. The smile is gone from his face. He looks at you like he's trying to solve a puzzle.
"Does anyone else live here?"
"No, why?"
He shakes his head. "No reason."
He puts on a pair of shorts from the floor, making it clear he's not coming back to bed.
"Do you want some coffee?" You ask, sitting up.
"Uh, sure. But then I probably need to get going. I'm shipping out tomorrow."
"You are?" This is the first he's mentioned it. You thought you'd have at least the rest of the day with him.
"Yeah," he answers without looking at you. "Official military business."
"Is it dangerous?"
You can't figure out what changed in the last few minutes but Santi is acting like a stranger.
He shrugs. "Could be."
Finally he stops moving around the room.
"Do you have anything you want to tell me before I leave? You know, just in case?"
"Jesus, Santi."
You move to the edge of the bed and reach for him. He lets you take his hand in yours. You look up from his fingers entwined in yours to find him watching you. Dark eyes intent on your face. Looking for something, though you're not sure what.
"I... I'm really glad you came this weekend. And I would really like it if you came back. Will you be able to call while you're overseas?"
Santi pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. Whatever he wanted you to say, that wasn't it.
"Maybe."
He pulls his hand away from yours and keeps packing.
"I'll go make coffee."
"Thanks."
Standing in your kitchen, rotely making coffee, your throat tightens up with tears. When Santi comes out of your bedroom, dressed and packed, you have to clench your jaw to keep from crying.
You're not trying to manipulate him, but it does have that effect. He drops his duffle bag and wraps his arms around you, tucking you against him.
"You know, you can tell me anything. I'll always be here for you, no matter what."
His words swirl with confusion in your chest.
"I know," you say. But you really don't. You feel like he's waiting for you to tell him a secret. And you would, if you had one to tell.
"I'll be back in a few weeks. We can talk then."
He presses a kiss to your forehead and leaves. He doesn't even ask for coffee.
Present Day
The van gets you as far as it can go. You have coordinates for where you think Benny and the others are being held.
(Because Benny is definitely still alive).
But to get there will be an eight mile hike through jungle terrain.
The conversation from earlier repeats itself.
"I'm coming."
"No, you're not. It's dangerous just getting there. And once we're there, you have no combat experience." Pope is taking a harder line this time. He's not looking at anyone else for support. He made his decision and that's final.
Except it's not.
"I'm not going to storm the castle with you. I'm not an idiot."
Pope opens his mouth like he might argue that point but you don't let him.
"I can make the hike just fine, and once we're there you will need my eyes and ears to get you past the electronic security."
"Its a stash house in the middle of nowhere. How much electronic security are they going to have?" Pope asks.
"According to this heat map I found? A shit ton."
You open your computer screen to them and show them an areal view of their target. The building is red hot, lit up from the inside out with a clear electronic fence perimeter giving off it's own signal.
"Shit, where did you get this?" Redfly asks.
"That's need to know."
Redfly raises an eyebrow at you but doesn't push.
"We get close enough for me to shut all of this down. Then I'll wait quietly and hope I don't get eaten by a jaguar while you guys go be heroes and rescue Benny. Deal?"
All of the guys look at Pope. He knows he's out numbered. Still, he scrubs his hand down his face letting his palm rest over the dark shadow of a beard that's been there since you first saw him 12 hours ago.
"I hate this." Is all Pope says.
"Tough titties," you say as you pack up your bag.
Ironhead can't help the small smile that graces his face.
"Missed you, Charlie," he whispers as the other are walking ahead.
"At least someone did," you mumble to yourself.
When you said you could make the hike "just fine" that was probably and overstatement. But you do make it and you convince yourself you don't slow them down too much. Three hours in relative silence. Just the bird song above your head and the sound of insects chirping from below. Every once in a while you heard something larger that makes you move faster to keep up with the pack.
You stop when you pick up the signal for the stash house. Everyone one hunkers close to the ground behind a thick outgrowth of trees and ferns.
The building should be about a fifty yards southwest of where you're stopped. But the sun is starting to get low. You estimate you only have about an hour and a half of sunlight left. And then this jungle is going to get very dark. You try not to think about that and instead focus on getting past the bunkers security.
You work quietly and quickly. Poking at the firewall until you find what you're looking for.
"Gotcha," you whisper.
You let your code in through the backdoor and let it loose on their electric grid.
"Okay, I can't guarantee how long this will work so you better get moving. I'll manage what I can from here."
The guys all check their weapons and their coms. Each one nods at you before they head out. Except Pope.
Pope hands you a small firearm.
"I was only kidding about the jaguars," you say.
"I'm not worried about the jaguars. If someone approaches and doesn't identify themselves, you shoot them. And if we're not back in thirty minutes, you run. Okay?"
He grabs your wrist, turning your hand so he can place the gun there.
"I don't—"
"For once, just do what I say. Please?"
His face is drawn close to yours, his fingers still wrapped tightly around your wrist. For a moment, you think he might kiss you.
"Okay."
He sighs and then he's on his way, chasing after the rest of the team.
You look down at the gun and then at the computer screen. You watch as the electrical grid goes down.
You click on your com.
"Angels, all clear, over."
Then you sit, back against a tree, computer in your lap, gun at your side, and wait.
One Year Ago
Santi never called. The only reason you knew he was back in one piece was because you got called for a job with a different team. When you asked why you weren't with Redfly's team you were told they requested someone else on coms.
It felt like being punched.
The other team was fine but it wasn't the same. They didn't treat you like you were one of them. You were just a machine spitting out code. Nobody gave you a nickname.
A two months later, Benny shows up at your house. You open the door and he immediately envelops you in a hug, squeezing you until your feet lift off the floor.
You laugh, you can't help it.
"What are you doing here?"
"I missed you!" He says without missing a beat.
You know that's not the reason.
He looks you over as you let him into your home.
"They gave us some new nerd. He's lame. Never laughs at any of my jokes. Also, he's not nearly as good at the job as you are."
You're not sure why Benny is offering this olive branch but you take it.
"Thanks, Ben. It means a lot."
"So," Benny says, putting an arm around your shoulder and walks you around your own living room like he's looking for something. "How have you been? Feeling okay?"
You squint up at him, the question doesn't sit right.
"Honestly? My feelings are hurt."
Benny stops moving and turns to you.
"I am really sorry."
"I don't think you're the one who is supposed to be apologizing. Can you at least tell me what happened? Did I do something wrong or did he just get bored?"
Benny steps away, his head tilting back. He pushes his hair away from his face and then looks at you with those clear blue eyes.
"I don't think I can give you that answer."
"Can't or won't?"
Benny doesn't respond. He has the decency to look guilty.
"Look, if you just came here for proof of life, you got it. You're off the hook, you can go now."
"Hey, hey, hey," Benny reaches out and grabs both your hands. "I really did come here because I missed hanging out with you. Can we be friends? Outside of all the other bullshit?"
You pause because you're not sure the answer to that question is yes. Having Benny here feels like a reminder of everyone who isn't here. But he is looking at you like you stole his favorite toy so you give in.
"Yeah, we can be friends."
He smiles wide. "Sweet. Now take me to your favorite bar!"
You're three rounds in, you've lost count of what Benny's on but you're definitely not trying to keep up with him.
"I should be better at this," Benny says as he whiffs another dart wide.
"You really should be."
Your dart lands on double 20s. You walks to the score bored and close out the circle.
"That's game."
"Damn!" Benny says. "You just kicked my ass!"
You laugh. He looks proud of you.
"I played this a lot growing up. Unfair advantage," you say with a shrug.
"I was top of my unit in marksmanship. I thought that would count more in darts."
He looks genuinely confused and you think maybe Benny's never been bad at anything before.
"Next time."
Benny throws an arm around you. "Hell yeah, next time I'm gonna kick your ass."
Benny shares a cab back to your house. You flop down on the couch, tipsier than you've been in awhile. You look up at Ben. You're suddenly struck by a feeling of grief. The missing of a life you thought you might have. With Santiago. Going out with the guys then coming home, just the two of you. Maybe you have no right to grieve something that never really existed. But it makes you sad none-the-less.
It must show on your face because Benny sits down next to you.
"Don't be sad," he says as he puts an arm around you. "Please?"
You wipe your eyes as best you can pressed against Benny's chest.
"I'm sorry. Stupid alcohol."
You lean back and find Benny's worried face focused on you.
His pretty, worried face. Pale blue eyes and dimples that hide at the corners of his mouth.
Benny's lips press together.
"I know that look," he says. His tone is light and playful.
You wrinkle your nose. "Sorry, can I blame the alcohol for that too?"
"I don't want you to think I'm turning you down..."
You shake your head. "It would just be revenge sex. That's not fair."
"I don't think revenge sex will make you feel better in the morning."
"No, you're probably right."
You know you should be embarrassed. You just, drunkenly, made a move on your ex's best friend. But Benny is still smiling like nothing weird happened.
"How 'bout some revenge cuddling and a movie?"
He opens his arm wide, letting you know where you belong.
You grab the remote on the coffee table and settle into his side.
When you wake up the next morning you're in your bed, alone. You walk out into the living room to find Benny on your couch. He opens one squinty eye at you.
"That couch is not big enough for you. You could have slept in my bed. I would have behaved."
Benny stretches and sits up.
"Hey, I said revenge sex wouldn't make you feel better. Doesn't mean it wouldn't have made me feel better."
He's got a goofy grin on his face and his hair is matted to the side. It's not a bad sight to wake up to. It's just not the sight you want.
"Coffee?"
"God yes. I feel like I drank a whole brewery last night. Did you beat me in darts?"
"Twice."
Benny spends an easy morning at your kitchen table talking to you about everything but Santiago. When he finally goes he hugs you tight.
"Meant what I said. I like having you in my life. Don't be a stranger, okay?"
You nod.
"Thanks, Benny. I really needed this."
He shrugs as he walks down your front steps.
"You'd do the same for me."
Present Day
The sun is getting lower in the sky. The darkness of the jungle settles in around you, a claustrophobic feeling you have to take deep breaths to loosen. The light from your computer screen is looking brighter by comparison and you realize that you'll need to turn it off or risk giving away your location. Before you do you confirm the grid is still down. At least you could do that much for your angels. You look at you watch.
Twenty-two minutes.
The computer sits dark on your lap and the gun sits cold in your hand. You pull your knees up, sandwiching the laptop between your thighs and your chest. Your heart is beating faster. You press the gun between both hands. Then you hear it.
Movement off to your left, the direction of the bunker. You hold your breath, listening. The sounds is getting closer. Someone or something is definitely moving through the jungle toward you.
You quietly stand and face the direction the noise is coming from. Squinting in the low light, waiting for a sign. You raise the gun, your finger on the trigger.
"Charlie?"
"Benny?"
Your arms drop to your side and you move as quickly as you can toward the noise. Finally he's close enough to make out. All six-foot-four of him lumbering toward you. He nearly falls into you. Only managing to stay standing with your help.
"Hey, it's okay, I got you." You help him back to the small clearing where you've been waiting with all of the gear.
"Where's everyone else?"
"Coming," Benny says as he sits. "They wanted to clean the place out before they left. Told me to come find you."
In the dim light you examine his face. Swollen and bruised. But not so badly that he can't offer you a half smile.
"Fancy meeting you here."
"Goddam it, Benny," you shake your head but there is no anger in your words. Nothing could replace the relief you feel having him here, solid beneath your finger tips. "You scared the shit out of me."
"I can't believe you came."
You can hear movement coming from the same direction as Benny came from. Before you can grab the gun you hear Ironhead.
"Charlie, you here?"
"Yeah, and I have Benny."
A moment later Ironhead, Redfly, Fish, and Pope come crashing through the trees.
"Time to go," Redfly says.
You catch the look Pope gives you and Benny where you're seated on the ground with Benny practically in your lap.
Ironhead wastes no time, he lifts Benny up from the waist, getting him on his feet.
"Can you walk?"
"Yeah."
"Charlie, which direction are reinforcements going to come from?" Fish asks as he hikes his pack on.
"Behind us. The other base is in Panama, about twenty miles away. If they're on foot we should have a good head start, even moving slowly. If they're using a com I'll pick it up."
Fish nods at you. "Nice job." He pats your back as he moves to head up the squad.
You and Pope trail behind him with Ironhead and Redfly in the back helping Benny stay up right.
You're heading back the way you came, not that you would be able to tell. Between the encroaching darkness and the thick of the jungle you would be completely lost out here on your own. The thought makes you stay closer to Pope, even as you keep looking back to make sure Benny isn't far.
"He'll be fine," Pope says quietly. "Thanks to you."
"What about the other two guys?"
Pope looks down. "Didn't make it."
Guilt tightens your chest. "If I—"
But Pope grabs your forearm. "No. The only 'if' here is if you hadn't helped us Benny would be dead too."
You look down at where he holds you. He lets go.
"You don't know how much it means to me. To all of us."
Your gaze is focused on the uneven terrain in front of you but you can tell Pope's attention is on you.
"I know I'm not, like, one of the guys. But I care about Benny too."
Pope is quiet for a moment and you think he's going to leave it at that.
"Are you sleeping with him?"
"What?" You say too loudly. Your hand immediately comes over your mouth like it can quite the word you already said.
"First of all," you go back to whispering, "you have no right to give a shit who I sleep with. And second of all, no. Why would you even think that?"
Pope doesn't get a chance to answer. The transponder in your hand starts to beep softly. You look down at it.
"Shit, angles, we have company." The moniker slides out of your mouth without thought.
"How many?" Fish asks, stopping to let you catch up.
"Two and they're only about a hundred yards behind us and gaining."
"We must not have gotten everyone at the bunker," Ironhead says.
"Okay, we're not going to outrun them, so we're going to ambush them," Redfly says.
Benny hides with you behind a tree about fifty feet away from where the others set up.
"Why does Pope think we're sleeping together?" You whisper into Benny's ear.
"I might have told him we did once. Just to make him mad."
"Benny," you hiss his name to match the disappointment on your face.
"Sorry, but he hurt you and it pissed me off. He deserved to feel at least a little shitty about it."
You sigh. "Thanks, Benny." You kiss him on his bruised cheek.
"You're welcome, now be quiet and get down."
Benny pushes you closer to the ground and covers your body with his own. You want to push him off right up until the sound of gunfire rips through the air. Then your body instinctively makes itself smaller and your hands come to cover your ears. You feel Benny press himself against you, covering your head with his hands.
When it finally stops you find you're shaking, even with Benny's heavy frame around you. He gently helps you sit up.
"You okay?"
You nod.
"Welcome to your first firefight. You did great."
Pope is kneeling at your side before you can respond to Benny's joke.
"You okay?" He is asking, but he's already got his hands on you checking for wounds like he might not believe what you say.
"I'm fine," you insist. "Really. We're both okay."
"Of course he's okay, that asshole is indestructible."
Pope helps you to your feet but leaves Benny on the damp ground.
"Tell that to my kidneys. Pretty sure one of them is rattling around loose in there."
"You'll be fine. Quit complaining," Will say as he helps Benny up.
"Could we maybe not joke about major organ damage?"
"We alone out here?" Redfly asks you.
You look down at your transponder. Silent.
"So far as I can tell."
"Great. We still got two more miles to go and it's not getting any lighter."
When you make it back to the van it feels like coming home. You crawl into the back, sitting up and helping Benny lay down with his head on your lap to make him more comfortable.
"Do we have a first aid kit?" You ask.
"You wanna play nurse with me?" Benny asks.
He is smiling but his eyes are already slipping closed with exhaustion.
"Yeah, gonna start by sewing your mouth shut."
Benny smile grows shallow as he continues to fall further into sleep.
You let your body rest against the cool interior of the van. Unlike the trip here your body is too exhausted to even consider getting sick.
When you wake up the van has come to a stop. The back door opens and Fish and Pope are standing there.
"We have a place to crash here. It's safe," Ironhead assures you and he gently wakes Benny up and shifts him off your lap. You stumble getting out of the van. Pope sticks his arm out to catch you.
"You okay?"
You're getting tired of hearing that question.
"Yeah, legs are asleep, that's all."
Pope leads you into the small, nondescript house.
"I'll take first watch," Redfly says.
"I thought this place was safe?"
"Everything is relative. Bedrooms are down that way," Redfly says as he takes a seat at the small kitchen table.
"I'll take the couch and second shift." Fish doesn't leave this up for debate as he stretches out on an uncomfortable looking sofa.
Will keeps his arm around Benny as he guides him into one of the bedrooms. That's when you realize there are only two bedrooms.
"Come on," Pope says, ushering you into the empty one.
A single full size bed sits in the middle of the room. Thin blankets and two pillows the only dressing.
"I'll take the floor," Pope says as he grabs a pillow.
"Don't be an asshole. We can share the bed."
You tug off your boots and your mud covered pants and shirt leaving you in your underwear and a tank top. You lay down on one side of the bed and stare at Pope expectantly. Finally he follows your lead. Leaving his boots near the door and his clothes folded on a chair. The mattress moves underneath you as he lays down.
"Maybe we can talk tomorrow?" He asks, staring into the darkness across the room.
"Maybe we can talk now."
"You're tired it can—“
“Why did you leave me?"
You hear Pope sigh. He still doesn't look at you.
"I thought our relationship was one thing and you thought it was something else. I just needed to end it before I..." He sighs again. "Before I fell in love with you. Which, for the record, didn't work."
You roll on your side and tug at him, forcing him to turn toward you.
"What are you talking about? I was in love with you. I'm sorry I hadn't said it yet but I thought it would scare you off."
Pope curls on his side and traces his fingers over your cheek.
"You didn't love me. Maybe you wanted to but you didn't, not really."
This makes you mad. Who is he to tell you how you felt? Still feel.
"If you really loved me you would have told me about the baby."
"What?"
"Because if you felt like I felt you might have been excited about the idea. Even if the timing was wrong." Pope squeezes his eyes closed for a moment. "Because I know the timing wasn't great but I would have supported you no matter what decision you made. You didn't even give me the opportunity to prove myself. To hold your hand at the doctor's office. You just—"
“Santi! What are you talking about. What baby?"
You can see the way his brow furrows at you.
"Don't lie to me. I saw the pregnancy test in the garbage in your bathroom. I may not be as smart as you, but I know what a positive pregnancy test looks like."
The whole morning comes rushing back to you. All of his weird questions and the shift in his demeanor. You press your fist against you’re forehead so you don’t punch him.
"My sister. My sister was pregnant. She came over a few days before you did to take the test because she didn't want her husband around when she did it because she already had three kids and they weren't trying for a fourth."
"Your sister?" He doesn't sound completely convinced.
"Yes! And if you need proof, she decided to have the baby. You can count backwards from her birthdate if you want."
"But the expired condom."
You cover your eyes with your hand as you roll back.
"I have an IUD. That's why I told you it was fine."
“But—“
“But you're an idiot. Why didn't you just say something to me?"
"Because I was waiting for you to say something to me! I just thought, that, if you didn't want to tell me that I had to respect that wish. And I tried to but it fucking hurt. That you didn't care about me like that."
Now Santi is propped up on his forearm and neither of you are trying to be quiet.
"But I did care about you like that."
"Then why didn't you call me? It's not like you didn't know how to find me."
You close your eyes. You don't know if you should be angry, or sad, or relieved.
"I just figured you were bored with me. People get bored with me. I didn't want to hear you give me an excuse about how it's not me it's not you, so... I didn't give you the chance to."
"How could I possibly be bored by you? You once built a video game with all of us as players while we were away on a mission for three hours. Your brain moves ten times the speed of mine. If anyone is going to get bored, it's you."
You open one eye to find Santi hovering over you. His eyes are glassy staring down at you.
"I would tell you if I were pregnant," you say softly.
"Unless it's Benny's. Then I don't want to know." His mouth ticks to the side, a smile he can't quite contain.
"I'm not sleeping with Benny."
"He was just fucking with me?"
You nod.
"I had a feeling. He's such an asshole."
"Hey, that asshole is why I'm here."
Santi lowers himself until his nose brushes against yours.
"I don't want to talk about Benny anymore."
"Me neither."
Santis lips are soft on yours. They press there for a moment, letting you remember the shape of them. Then he's opening his mouth, begging entrance with his tongue. You eagerly open your mouth and let you legs spread so his thigh can can drag between them. You bury a moan against his teeth as his leg moves up and down, your center arching up, desperate for friction.
"At a minimum, Redfly is going to hear us," Santi whispers against your skin.
You stop moving. "Do you want to keep this a secret?"
"Me? God no. I want everyone to know. I don't care if they hear you three blocks away, baby."
You smile as he kisses you again.
"I'll try to confine it to this building."
"You'll have your work cut out for you. I have fucking missed you so much."
He is pulling your clothes of and settling between your legs. His cock rocks against your clit and he sucks on your nipple. You grip his hair between your fingers, your hips raising. You need him inside you. You drag his face up to yours. There will be time for other things later. Right now you just want to feel him fill you. When he does slide in something in the back of your brain relaxes. A weight you hadn't realized you were holding. The simple feeing of belonging.
Your legs wrap around his back as he pulses into you. The bed shakes under you, dragging against the wood floor has you both move in time. You don't care about the noise, or who might hear. You just care about the twisting cord in your abdomen that is so close to snapping.
"Don't stop," you beg him.
"Never," he says, "never again."
He rocks into you harder and faster until your nails are scratching down his back leaving red, raised skin. You bury your mouth against his shoulder as your orgasm hits you. He chases his own, holding firm to you hips as he fucks you, spilling inside you and collapsing forward, pressing you both into the mattress.
You stay like that, holding each other in the warm room, an errant streetlight illuminates part of the bed. Sodium-yellow light highlights Santi’s features as he lifts himself enough to look at you.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have given you the benefit of the doubt. I made it about my own insecurities.”
You trace his eyebrow, his cheekbone, his lips.
“I think I might have done the same thing. I’m sorry too. From here on out, we share the things that scare us. Okay?”
Santi nods and nips at your fingers where they rest against his mouth before he settles next to you to sleep.
The next morning you and Santi emerge from the bedroom to a round of applause from the rest of the angles.
“Fuck you guys,” Santi says.
You cover your mouth with embarrassment. But Santi only pulls you closer to his side.
“You have no idea how unbearable he’s been this last year,” Frankie says to you.
You peek over at Santi.
“There may be some truth in that.”
“Just a whiney little bitch,” Tom piles on.
“Alright,” Santi says with a hand up.
“Charlie this and Charlie that,” Will says.
“He just cried. All the time,” Benny says.
You can’t help laughing at their teasing. You slide your arm around his waist and tuck yourself against it.
Santi doesn’t fight back, he just shakes his head and takes it.
“I’m sure he’s going to be a complete delight now,” you offer.
The guys laugh at Santi’s expense. Santi’s only response is to press a kiss into your forehead.
Waiting on the tarmac for your ride back to the States, you rest your head on Santi’s shoulder.
“My contract is up in six months,” he says. “I’m not going to renew it.”
You turn to him.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” he says with a shrug. “But I know I’m done doing this.”
You remain quiet, waiting to see what else is on his mind.
“I do know,” he finally says after a pause, “that whatever comes nexts involves you. If you’ll have me?”
You nod. “I’ll have you.”
That smile is back on his face. The one you want to wake up to every morning. Knowing that you put it there.
Omgggggg this had me so damn invested! I am not getting any dam work done because I couldn’t stop reading this!!! This was sooo gooood! Santi is such a handsome jerk face and I’m glad my other boo Benny made it out alive. Santi is so lucky because I would’ve left his butt for Benny due to his behavior 🫠
being too warm during the day: well, this sucks, but this temperature makes sense because the sun is up, and the sun is making me warm. i am unhappy but logically i can deal with it for now.
being too warm at night: what if i kill everybody.
omg yay!!! I’m currently reading it right now too, I love it 🥹❤️🪨🤜🏻🤛🏻🌌🛰️✨
and nooooo you’re not, I got this same edition because I love the cover and I wanted to have movie!Grace on my book 📖 I normally don’t like movie tie-in covers / editions, but this one is so lovely and fitting for the book, and the movie was so so beautiful and good, that I specifically sought out this one ♡
It feels like social media is full of people hating on that cover and making videos of ripping it off to rebind their books 🥺 The custom-made covers are amazing!!! (but do you really have to include throwing Ryan into the trash in those videos 🥺)
I completely understand why people prefer original book covers to movie tie-ins but I think those rules don't apply when Ryan or Oscar are involved 😆
