theladystark

[theladystark]

trouble in paradise

slow paced/slow burn fics fear me. i wrote this in like 4 hours so lets be kind guys and ignore how spirally thsi is. hopefully another fic coming sometime in the next week xo

williamson!sister x alexia putellas

warnings: light angst, mentions of alcohol

You have mixed emotions as soon as the whistle blows.

You’re ecstatic, obviously. Who wouldn��t be after winning the biggest accolade your club has had in 18 years, especially considering just how much time and effort you’ve devoted to

them in those 18 years.

Arsenal has won, your one and only club has managed to win the champions league in what can only be described as probably the biggest underdog win in champions league history.

It’s exhilarating, it doesn’t feel real. But as your eyes lock onto Alexia, on the other side of the pitch, doubled over on herself like she’s experiencing a pain that is non-human.

Then your eyes move to Leah, your sister who bleeds even more red than you do.

She’s running straight for you, like you’re the only person in the world she wants to share this moment with, and you feel the same, she’s the most important part of your world. But as she blocks your view of Alexia your heart drops in a way that it shouldn’t at this moment.

You don’t have much time to think about it before your sister is barreling straight into you, knocking all the air out of your lungs as the two of you fall to the ground.

“We fucking did it.”

She collapses directly on you like a golden lab who has just spotted its owner and wants the biggest hug a person can give. Her whole body buries itself into yours, and then about five more as the dog pile starts.

You are just as Arsenal and Leah and Lotte, every single part of your body and soul belongs to the club. But you have this underlying feeling that you shouldn’t at this moment. It’s weird to consciously know it but not be able to change it.

You’ve gotten so used to Barcelona winning, sitting in the stands for the last two finals watching your girlfriend win everything and anything that she sets her eyes on. It’s annoying how easy it all is for her, but it’s also what you love about her.

Leah says you're a puppy dog, she’s never quite gotten used to Alexia. Like any older sibling she’s protective, but Leah takes it to another level. She’s never made anything easy for Alexia, ruthless to a point that you’ve never seen her be with anybody else and yet Alexia takes it all, never complains, if anything she gives ten times more in an attempt to seek some kind of approval from your sister. She never quite gets it, but she likes the challenge, you know it.

The dog pile eventually falls off and you're left to look up at the sky. You think that it’s perfect, and that truly if you could stay staring up at the bright Lisbon blue for the rest of your life you would.

But you're brutally taken from that as a set of arms tug you off the ground. Suddenly the 90+ minutes of playing time hit you, or maybe the nausea, or guilt and you feel wobbly. Like your whole body could collapse if your teammates weren’t holding you up.

Leah kisses your head, over and over again until she moves onto having a moment with Kim and you've got Kyra plastered to your side telling you how you’re her idol and some other spur of words that don’t quite process in your brain.

It’s probably easily played off as shock due to the win, but in reality you actually are experiencing the worst guilt you’ve ever felt.

The shaking hands is worse, specifically because you have spent the last three summers with this team and have never in your life seen them all completely gutted. You try to keep it quick, but when Ingrid starts crying into you shoulder you legitimately feel like you might vomit.

Alexia is the worst, because of course she is.

It’s hard enough to approach her, sitting on the ground with Mapi squatted down next to her.

Mapi spots you first, your Spanish isn’t bad but you certainly can’t lip read it. She says something to Alexia though, because she looks up at you for a split second. You watch the hope fade into something else that looks like disgust and then she says something to Mapi which prompts Mapi to stand up.

The frown on her face tells you everything.

“She-She just needs a few minutes.”

You try not to let it show on your face, not to show the complete rejection you feel at being blocked from the one person who can probably solve your problem.

Mapi must see it though, she’s good at that you’ve learnt, good at reading people who don’t want to be.

“She’ll call you later, or come see you, I’ll make sure of it. She just needs a little bit.”

You try and convince yourself that it isn’t the worst pain you’ve ever felt.

The guard of honour is probably the worst part, she reaches out for Mariona a few steps in front of you, and then her eyes lock on you and you have hope. But she walks past, as if you’re nothing. As if you haven’t been in a public relationship for two years now and as if she isn’t the love of your life like she’s told you.

You feel Leah’s glare from beside you, her hand tightening in its place on your shoulder in a silent question. Her head ducks down, resting in your ear as if she’s going to say something.

“Leave it. Whatever you’re going to say, don’t. If you want me to keep smiling for the cameras, stay silent.”

You’re the quieter out of you and Leah, less bossy, generally more in the shadows. But your relationship is quite the opposite, it kind of has to be when you’re dating the best player in the world. You already know how many tik tok edits are already going to be made about this moment and how many rogue messages you’ll receive from people who know nothing about your life.

Leah gets the message, she’s smart enough not to prod when there are quite literally cameras at every angle recording every moment right now. She has her own relationship that she’s trying to preserve from all of the media. She knows what it means to keep some parts of a public life hidden.

Barcelona collect their medals and you try to keep a tight smile on your face as you watch Alexia walk across the stage and take her medal. She’s not used to having a silver one, it’s the first thought in your mind, not for a long time at least. All she ever does is win, she was literally the poster girl for nikes ‘just win’ campaign.

Then it’s your turn, your turn to walk through Barca’s guard of honour. Most of the girls who you’ve spent summers with open up for a hug, or a handshake at least. But Alexia looks so spaced out and out of the moment that she doesn’t even flinch when Frido elbows her in the ribs. She looks at you, like a kicked puppy and then looks at the fucking ground of all places.

It’s the twisting of the knife already lodged in your gut.

You try to smile as the confetti goes off and the trophy is lifted. You try and think about how much more upset you’ll be when you look at the pictures afterwards just for you to look upset in all of them. It does nothing though, not when the trophy is offered to you to lift, not when Lotte has her arms around your shoulders humming to ‘North London Forever’ , not when your sister tries to dance with you.

Even when your family comes down to the pitch. Even the sight of your Spurs father in an Arsenal jersey does nothing.

Mariona is the first person to bring you in for a proper hug.

“It doesn’t feel good doing it, wishing that other people would win so much that you’d rather lose.”

You’re off to the side, far enough away that you don’t feel suffocated by red. A different shade of red to the Barcelona one you were expecting to see.

“Is it bad that I was so certain they were going to win that this wasn’t a possibility?”

Mariona shakes her head, although you highly doubt she agrees. She’s as invested in this belief as everybody else, you were too. You believed that your team could win, you just somehow didn’t believe it was actually going to happen.

“Not at all, there is nothing bad about being surprised about an outcome you didn’t expect. How about you go and talk to Ale?”

You feel sick thinking about her. She’s your favourite person and yet it feels like you’re the last person she wants to see.

“She doesn’t want to see me. She’s made that very clear.”

Mariona frowns and brings you in for another hug.

“She’s never been a very good loser, give her an hour and she’ll warm back up. She’ll want to celebrate with you when she’s gotten over this.”

You hope for the love of god that Mariona is right.

You put yourself through the hell of post-game celebrations and media. Take every photo and every interview that you have to and then you’re heading straight back to the hotel.

Alexia’s hotel is the one next to yours, and you make the decision that you can’t go to the celebrations until you’ve sorted it all out. Once you get to the celebrations you’re inevitably going to drink, in the company of Katie McCabe and your sister you’ll probably drink a lot. You tend to have a pattern of your anger when you're drunk turning into a very ugly person and you’re determined to not let it happen right now. You also want to see your girlfriend.

Leah moans the whole walk over, groaning about how she could be partying and about how she could be drinking and celebration and a whole other slew of complaints that your depressed brain isn’t ready to hear.

You make it into the lobby without encountering anybody, but Alexia’s hotel hallway is full of Barcelona staff and players who look like they're ready to spit and yours and your sisters game jerseys that you’re still wearing.

“I don’t get why we have to bloody search for Putellas when she’s having a pity party, we should be partying.”

You hiss at Leah, she’s slightly tipsy on the heineken cans from the locker room and is bordering on your last nerve.

“I didn’t ask you to come Leah, I am here because I want to be, I didn’t tell you to accompany me.”

She groans again but you’re too focused as your eyes lock onto Patri at the end of the hallway.

“Oi, Patri, Patri.”

She turns quickly, her eyes downcast and puffy as if she’s been crying for hours, which your figure she probably could have.

“Williamson one, Williamson two.”

Leah laughs, as if it’s the funniest joke that could have been made.

“Glad to see that I haven’t lost my sense of humour.”

Then Leah giggles, the same way she does when she’s plastered at the pub on a Sunday night and is two steps away from forgetting everything.

“I need to see Alexia.”

Patri swallows, in the same way people tend to when they’re nervous.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”

Leah’s giggling seizes. She steps out in front of you.

“Tell Putellas to stop sulking and come and congratulate my sister the same way she has the last two years. She can get over herself for five minutes and be gracious.”

Suddenly the possibility of a fight in this hallway doesn’t seem impossible.

“Patri, please, just let me see her. She doesn’t need to talk, I just want to see her.”

Patri shakes her head, but you assume Leah does the scary thing where she frowns and tilts her head like an animal about to strike because Patri relents.

“I will try, but I can’t promise you anything.”

Patri disappears down the hallway until she gets to a room a few doors down, she must have Alexia’s keycard because the door opens immediately and she slips in.

“Seriously, why are we here? This is your night and Putellas is ruining it. Her sob story is seriously killing the buzz.”

You’re sick of everybody else telling you what to do and what to feel.

“Leah I didn’t fucking ask you to be here, shut up or leave. This is my problem and I’m happy to fix it on my own.”

Leah mutters something under her breath and you swear you might strangle her, it wouldn’t be the first time the two of you had gotten into a tussle. Then you spot Mapi down the end of the hallway and your focus switches again. This time you don’t have to yell, she spots you immediately and pivots in your direction.

“Chica, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be partying, no? Or at least doing something better than this.”

Your strangling intention pivots to Mapi.

“This is what I’m saying, why are we here?”

Strangling back to Leah.

“Leah, final time I tell you to shut up before I throat punch you.”

You might not be as intense as your sister but when you get worked up you’d argue you’re ten times more terrifying.

“I just need Ale, okay? Five seconds is all I need.”

Mapi grimaces and it feels like you’re missing something and you hate it.

Just as you’re about to say something, Patri emerges. With no Alexia and a deep frown etched into her face.

“How about you come back tomorrow, or she’ll call you sometime tomorrow.”

You use all of your willpower to shake your head.

“No, tell her that it’s urgent, that I need her right now.”

Leah’s back behind you like a guard dog who's ready to attack at any minute.

“Look, she’s not, she can’t see you right now.”

You feel all the tears building up, all the guilt and anger from today finally coming to fruition.

“Patri, Mapi, please.”

It’s the wobble in your words that do it you think, or at least it does it for Leah.

“You two need to talk to your captain and give her thirty seconds to see my sister whilst she still has some dignity. This is fucking embarassing. She’s stood by her for all of her wins even when it’s been hard for her, she has been there for literally everything.”

Neither of the women move and it’s probably the part that breaks you the most, that these people who you have known for years now don’t have the respect to give you this.

Leah pushes past them, walking to the door Patri had walked in and out of and banging on it so loudly the sound reverberates.

“Putellas I swear to god, or dios or whatever the fuck you call it in Catalan that if you don’t open this door right now to give my sister the congratulations she fucking deserves then I will make sure that she never comes and sees you again. You think that you already have it tough with me? I will make you so miserable that you’d wish to be in hell. Open the fucking door.”

Leah keeps banging, until your ears are ringing and multiple staff members peek their heads out of their bedroom doors to see what all the commotion is.

“Leah.”

It seems like the adrenaline has gotten to her head.

“Leah, let’s go.”

Leah looks like she’s about to say something else, like she’s going to argue but your face must say it all.

“Tell Putellas she can go and get fucked and that if she ever wants to see my baby sister again she better have a pretty good apology lined up and some serious grovelling. In England. No more flying out to Spain because it’s easier for her. She wants anything to do with her she can come talk to me first.”

You don’t wait to see if Leah is following behind you, you just start walking. Down the hallway and into the elevator where Leah does join you.

She doesn’t talk even though it seems like she wants to. She brings you into a hug as soon as the doors close and you don’t even attempt to stifle your sobs.

Leah hugs you until the doors to the elevator open and then she helps you to wipe your face as you exit the hotel and make the walk two blocks back to your own hotel.

The party in the function room is in full swing. Leah forces you through the door like she knows that you’re considering bolting.

“You’re going to regret it if you leave, hate me for it now but I’m right.”

You definitely hate her for it but you don’t run away either. You let your sister tug you through the crowd of people until she finds your mom and then you're gone all over again. Leah walks off in search of Elle and you're left standing in front of your mum with new tears streaming down your face. It takes all of five seconds for her to wrap her arms around you and bring her into you.

“I don’t get why she doesn’t want to see me, I just want to see her.”

You don’t know whether or not you want to hear anything. You want to be able to celebrate with your teammates like a normal person and not be so attached to your fucking girlfriend that when shit like this happens you fall apart.

You’ve always loved hard though, loyal to the point it’s kind of concerning. It’s the one thing you do beat Leah at.

“Just give her a little bit, yeah, she’s struggling. Give her some room to breathe and then punch her a bit for being a dick and get over it. You two will get over it together.”

You want to believe your mum, she’s generally right with most things. You’re a bit hurt right now though to think straight.

“Go enjoy yourself, I promise you that if you don’t then you’ll regret it. Enjoy yourself and worry about Alexia later.”

You would say that the three tequila shots that Katie feeds you are probably what makes you start to enjoy yourself. There’s an unspoken assumption that you’re clearly not okay but everybody is decent enough not to ask. You’re given pretty much every alcoholic beverage that your teammates can find and it helps, slightly. You forget about Alexia for a little bit, for long enough for it to hurt a little bit less.

Until Vic comes up to you telling you that there is somebody from Barcelona waiting for you outside.

Your heart soars, and you all but try to stumble as quickly as you can out of the function room in search of the one person you want to be.

Your heart plummets as soon as you make it out of the doors and Jana is the one waiting for you.

Your mind is significantly more foggy than it was when you were talking to Patri and Mapi.

“She’s sorry.”

Sorry seems to be the worst thing you could be told.

“Sorry?”

Jana shrugs like she has more to say but doesn’t know how to.

“She just needs a bit of a break right now.”

You feel every positive feeling that had been starting to reintroduce itself to your body completely leave.

“A break from our relationship, or me or just life?”

Jana looks like she really doesn’t know what to say.

“So she loses one game, the first game shes ever fucking played against me for club and decides she’s just done? That she can’t stomach perfect fucking barcelona losing? Nice, love that her pride comes before me. You’d think after three years that would maybe pass but I suppose the time doesn’ matter as much to her as it matters to me.”

Jana is left speechless and that’s all the answers you need.

You drink. You drink a lot. Going toe to toe with Katie is no small feat but you manage to do pretty well. You drink until you can’t think anymore and are legless and then you drink some more.

You don’t know what time somebody takes you to bed but you do know that you wake up with Leah snoring beside you and your head so sore that it feels like your brain doesn’t belong inside of it.

“Oi, stop fucking snoring. No wonder Elle complains.”

Leah rouses next to you, a lopsided smile on her face as she blinks away the sleep. She put an arm out to hug you and you give her a shove that almost pushes her off of the bed.

“Glad to see that your charm doesn’t disappear when you’re nursing the hangover of the century. I was supposed to spend the night with Elle but you were so blind I genuinely thought you were going to choke on your own vomit in your sleep.”

You try to shove her again but she’s far away now that she’s out of the shoving vicinity.

“You’re supposed to be nice to me, y’know, little sister care or something.”

Leah rolls her eyes.

“Yeah right I’ve seen Putellas fight on the floor with her sister.”

As soon as the words leave Leah’s mouth she knows what she's done, everything you’d almost forgotten comes flooding straight back and the sickness washes over you all over again.

“Shit-I’m-Shit.”

You shake your head, it's already been said.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. We should start packing, early flight and everything.”

Leah seems to get the message, rolling out of your bed in a thud and dragging herself out of your room with a little smile on the corner of her lips.

You have peace for about five minutes, enough peace to silence the pain in your head every time you blink or move. Until your door unlocks and Kyra comes barreling in.

“So trouble in paradise?”

She’s got a lot more energy than you think anybody else does. As if she never drank to begin with.

“You can either leave or be quiet and help me pack my bag.”

Kyra wasn’t the person you thought you’d bond with. When she’d come to Arsenal you’d already cemented pretty solid relationships with girls in the team like Lotte and Kim. You all were on the quieter side. Then Kyra had come along and everything you’d heard about her and seen of her was loud and rambunctious and chaotic. Then you got to know her, got to know about how she was an extroverted introvert and 80% of the time was a lot calmer than everyone made her out to be. The two of you found a balance together.

“I’ll do your toiletries, you sort out luggage.”

You're sick of the little sorry smile people keep giving you.

Kyra battles in your ensuite whilst you throw the very small amounts of your things into your suitcase. It’s a quick process and by the time you check your phone you’re running perfectly on time. You try not to feel hurt by the lack of texts, calls or signs of life from Alexia. You’re fine, none of it really matters.

Kyra and you manage to get your things out of your room right as some of the staff are coming down and knocking on peoples door to meet down at the bus transfers to the airport. You try not to think about the fact that as soon as you get on the plane that’s another two weeks before you play Alexia again. Two more weeks without seeing her that you didn’t think you’d have.

You help Kyra pack up her own things before the two of you head down to the lobby to wait.

The lobby is already pretty full, full of teammates who look like they’re in desperate need of a bucket or some serious anti-nausea pills before they hop on a flight.

You dump your luggage with everybody else’s and find a seat mostly away from everybody else. Although nobody seems to be in an overly sociable mood.

You’re wallowing in your own depression, really. It’s a little bit pathetic but you don’t really care. You’re past the point of caring what anybody thinks of you after you pretty much confessed all of your relationship problems to half of your teammates last night and possibly coaching staff as well.

You should be embarrassed but in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t really matter. It feels like your relationship is imploding in front of you and you literally can’t do anything to stop it.

“Mini Williamson, you’re wanted.”

Beth’s voice is completely gone, raw and stringy but you hear it all the same.

“I don’t want a photo or anything else, Beth.”

Suddenly you wish that you’d gotten your sunglasses from your bag because as the sun shines in through the windows in the lobby your head hurts at a whole other level.

“I think you’ll want to see this.”

You look up at Beth and then at the direction she’s pointing in and choke on whatever air you’d been inhaling.

“Oh god.”

Alexia looks like she hasn’t slept, less than you. The part that is the most horrific about her appearance though is the arsenal jersey that she’s wearing. You’ve never seen Alexia in a jersey of yours that hasn’t been an English one, there was a weird contingency between the two of you that club jerseys were just a no. You both were one club players, and you wanted it to stay that way. Yet here Alexia is, standing in the lobby of the hotel with a bright red Arsenal jersey.

The only thought you have is that as you sister locks eyes with her that she is going to punch her. It’s the only thing that crosses your mind.

“Leah. No.”

Leah doesn’t listen, it was a hopeless attempt. She flys full force towards Alexia at a rate that you could never catch up with.

Alexia doesn’t flinch as Leah comes face to face with her, her hands digging into the stupid jersey as Leah starts to yell something that you can’t understand because your too focused on getting in between the two of them without passing out from hangover symptoms.

You manage to cross the room before Leah throws hands. Thankfully.

“Leah, no. Not here.”

You try to ignore the fifty eyes of your teammates on you.

Leah looks like an animal about to tear into her prey.

“Leah. No. Not here.”

You drag the two of them into the nearest handicapped bathroom you can find.

“You think you can just dick around my sister and show up here the next morning and be forgiven, huh? God Putellas you should be worshipping her fucking feet right now, you should be grateful that she hasn’t broken up with you ass for your dumbass behaviour. Do you realise how out of your league she is? How any person in London would break their own leg to have her, and yet you just get to have her and fuck her around however you want?”

Alexia just nods along with everything Leah says.

“Are you done, Leah? Can I talk to my partner now without my sister talking for me?”

Leah is staring down Alexia with such intensity that you think she might combust.

“Leah, out, let me talk to her, please.”

Leah relents, but then gives up.

“I will be waiting outside and if I hear anything leave your mouth Putellas besides an apology I will be back.”

The older sister act has happened your whole life, to every girlfriend, fling, one night stand and partner. Apparently it’s unavoidable.

The room is silent for a few seconds, Alexia doesn’t look like she’s going to say anything so you fill the silence.

“I’ve never seen you in an Arsenal top before.”

With the busy schedule you hardly manage to make it to any of Alexia’s club matches and vice versa. Although you do have a Barca top buried in the bottom of your dresser that you pull out when you have time to watch Alexia’s games. You never wear it but you bring it out anyways.

“You won, you deserve to be represented.”

You can’t tell how authentic it is and that hurts.

“I just didn’t deserve it last night.”

Alexia looks so broken that you almost fold, almost give up the tough persona but you’re still hurt, even as you look at Alexia’s pouty features and empty eyes.

“I-I there’s no excuse. You deserved to celebrate how you pleased last night and I ruined it for you. I was selfish and too consumed in my own emotions to see that. I don’t have anything to say but I’m sorry. You deserved better and I didn’t give it to you.”

Alexia’s lip quivers, properly quivers.

“That’s all you have? That you were too worried about yourself to care about me? Do you understand that to be in a relationship it's 50/50, you don’t get to choose when you care about me and when you don’t. You’re supposed to love me unconditionally.”

A tear rolls down Alexia’s face and you feel horrible, but you know you’re doing the right thing by not going easy.

“I’ve never lost to somebody I loved. I’ve never played on a field and wanted another person to win simply because I love them. I’ve never felt worse than I did when I was happy that you won. I was supposed to be upset about us losing and yet I was more upset about the fact that I was happy that you won. I didn’t want to ruin your celebrations by being upset, you deserved to be surrounded by people who were going to appreciate you fully instead of distract you. I wanted you to be free of me burdening you.”

It’s the relatability, the fact that you can say that everything Alexia is describing you also felt.

“I want to share everything with you. I don’t spend every spare minute on the phone with you and every other minute thinking about you to not want to spend the ups and downs with you. I would have rather sat in your hotel room all of last night crying then gone to stupid celebrations not knowing how you felt about me.”

The silence hangs for a few seconds.

“They were great celebrations, not stupid and Putellas this is when you actually apologise so I don’t kill you.”

You bang your head against the wall of the bathroom.

“Leah, Fuck off.”

Alexia shakes her head.

“I am sorry. I did not give you wanted on the night of your life. You deserved to be celebrated and I did the complete opposite. I never want that to happen again, I love your more than anything, you are my life and you are my soul. Please, let me make it iup to you. I’ll come to London, I’ll do anything. I just want you, I want to make it up to you.”

You suppose she’s the love of your life, and you aren’t quite ready for this to be the end of that.

“You’ll come to London and you’ll wear my jersey all weekend and you’ll go out for dinner with Leah and make things up and you’ll deal with me when I’m wasted or so hungover I can’t move until you have to go to Spain. Understood.”

Alexia nods dutifully.

“And she’ll take you shopping, both of us shopping, and I want the new oakley drop.”

You roll your eyes and reach out for Alexia, letting her press the most respectable of kisses to your cheek before parting.

“Leah if you aren’t gone by the time I exit I will make it so you can never play football again.”

You wait for the scamper of her feet before you fall into Alexia with the whole weight of your body, relaxing against the person you’ve needed most,

[theladystark]

♯┆𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 .ᐟ — 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: A joke profile on a sugar daddy site turns serious when @TimeIsMoney starts paying—and praising—you. What begins as harmless fun spirals into obsession after one night in his hotel suite leaves you aching, ruined, and wanting more.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: daddy kink, age gap, sugar baby stuff, praise, rough sex, oral (f receiving), creampie, money kink, dirty talk, power dynamics, he’s obsessed, reader gets absolutely ruined, aftercare, light choking, finger fucking, reader gets called good girl a lot

𝐖𝐂: 4,000

It starts as a joke.

Wine bottles rattle as Nobara kicks the recycling bin closed with the heel of her foot, the sound of glass clinking against cheap plastic barely audible over the laughter echoing through your tiny, overstuffed apartment. Maki flops onto the couch beside you, stretching out like a cat, her legs hooked over the armrest and one arm draped across her eyes. The air smells like takeout and wine, sweet and familiar, the kind of scent that clings to memories. Finals are looming like storm clouds, rent is due in a week, and the textbooks on the kitchen table are collecting more dust than notes. The weight of it all sits heavy in the background, but for now, there’s laughter—loud and warm and so completely alive it makes you forget that you’re broke. That you’re stressed. That everything feels impossible sometimes.

“I’m telling you,” Nobara says as she refills her glass, the wine sloshing close to the rim. “Sugar daddies are the answer. Tuition? Handled. Rent? Done. Textbooks? Bought by some old man who just wants to stare at your feet and be told he’s a good little pay pig.”

You nearly choke on your drink, laughing as you wave her off. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

But Maki’s already pulling your laptop closer, pushing aside the half-eaten box of noodles and flicking the screen to wake it. “Come on, let’s just look. You never know.”

The three of you huddle close as the website loads, the layout exactly as tacky as you’d expect. It takes ten minutes to craft a profile that’s both over-the-top and strangely believable. You use a slightly sultry selfie from last month—nothing too scandalous, just a little cleavage and a coy smile. The bio is ridiculous: College student. Lit major. Broke but charming. Let’s make a deal. You don’t use your real name. The username you pick @YourSweetestSin is half a joke, half something that makes you snort. By the time the profile is live, you’re all laughing so hard your stomach hurts. It’s stupid. It’s harmless. You never intend to take it seriously.

But you don’t delete the profile either. Not that night. Not the next day.

The first message comes two days later while you’re curled in bed, laptop balanced on your thighs, half-focused on an essay you’re bullshitting at the last possible second. The ping startles you, the notification bouncing in the corner of your screen.

@TimeIsMoney: Hello.

That’s it. No gross pickup line. No emojis. No sleazy GIFs. Just a greeting. Curious, you click the profile, expecting a troll or someone who looks like he just escaped from a retirement home. But there’s no picture. Just a clean profile with a short bio: Professional. Discreet. Generous. It makes you snort. “Sure,” you mutter under your breath. But you reply anyway. For the bit. For the laugh. You can’t wait to show the girls.

Except it doesn’t end there. He writes back. You respond. The next message comes within the hour. Then another. And another. Each one short, to the point, polite in a way that disarms you. He asks how your classes are going. What books you’re reading. He doesn’t flirt. He compliments you, but not in a way that makes your skin crawl. It’s strange. It’s addictive. You start checking the app more often. You start replying faster. There’s something comforting about the consistency of it, about the way he always answers. Predictable. Reliable. And that’s something you didn’t realize you were craving until now.

Then, on the fifth night

I want to see you.

The message appears while you’re lying on your stomach, feet kicking behind you, chin resting in your palm. You read it three times. Your heart skips a beat, your stomach flips, and your first instinct is to laugh. This is the part where you bail, right? Where you screenshot it and send it to Nobara with a “can you believe this guy?” But instead, you’re walking to the mirror, pulling your hair over one shoulder, angling your phone just right. You pick your best push-up bra—the black one that hugs you perfectly—and snap a photo. You send it. Doll eyes. Slight pout. Your lips parting like you’ve done this a thousand times.

The response is immediate.

Good girl.

Then, a second later, another notification.

You’ve received $500.

You sit up. Blink. Refresh the app. But it’s there. Sitting in your account, waiting to be transferred. Your jaw drops. Then you scream. Then you laugh. Hard. You’re breathless. You don’t tell Nobara or Maki. Not this time.

From that moment on, it’s a blur. More messages. More requests. Nothing below the waist, not yet. Just photos. A little more skin each time. He never demands. He always asks. And he always pays.

Take off your bra. $500.

Show me your nipples. $700.

Each time, the money lands in your account within seconds. And each time, you find yourself a little wetter. A little more flushed. A little more eager to read the next message. You don’t just do it for the money anymore. You do it because his praise makes your stomach flutter. Because you feel seen. Desired. Wanted. Powerful.

Then comes the night he asks to call you. Your hands tremble as you answer. His voice is everything you didn’t expect. Calm. Smooth. Deep enough to settle in your bones and echo. He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t tease. He tells you exactly what he wants. Exactly how he wants to hear you fall apart. You’re already naked when the call starts. The toy he told you to buy is buzzing between your thighs before he even finishes the first sentence. His voice doesn’t falter. He talks you through it like he’s done it a hundred times. You come so hard you see white. He pays you $1,000.

You don’t bother pretending anymore. You wait for his messages. You ache when he disappears for too long. You’re careful not to get too attached, but it’s hard not to wonder. Not to imagine what he looks like. How he might taste. How it would feel to have those hands on your skin instead of just your imagination. So when the next message comes, you already know how you’ll answer.

I want you meet you

When and where?

The hotel he books is far nicer than anywhere you’ve ever been. Just stepping into the lobby makes you feel like an imposter. Crystal chandeliers, velvet furniture, a floral arrangement so big it probably has its own budget. Your heels click across the marble as you walk toward the elevators, your trench coat clutched tight around your body, hiding the lace beneath. You keep your head down. Pretend you belong. The nerves bubbling in your stomach are loud enough, sharp enough to echo.

He said he’d meet you in the room. Top floor. Private. You know the number by heart. You’ve read it over and over again on the message thread. Your fingers hover over the keypad outside the suite door. You press it before you can talk yourself out of it.

The door swings open almost immediately. And there he is.

Nanami Kento.

He doesn’t look how you pictured. He’s younger. Broader. Tall enough that you tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. Blonde hair, glasses, expensive-looking suit. He smells like cedar and something clean and expensive. His jaw is sharp. His expression unreadable. But his eyes, they roam your body like he knows exactly what’s under your coat.

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside.

You move past him into the room. The suite is massive. Soft lighting, a king-sized bed with crisp white sheets, a view of the city skyline that stretches beyond floor-to-ceiling windows. You hear the door close behind you. The lock clicks.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he says.

Your voice barely works. “I wasn’t sure either.”

“Are you nervous?”

You nod.

“Good.” He steps closer. “It means this matters.”

Then he touches you.

It’s not a grab. Not even a full reach. Just the brush of his fingers down your arm, slow and steady, his touch so light it makes your skin prickle. He looks at you like he’s reading you, analyzing every twitch, every flutter of your lashes. His fingers find the belt of your coat. He doesn’t tug. He doesn’t ask. He just looks at you.

You nod.

He undoes the knot slowly, methodically, like he’s unwrapping a gift he doesn’t want to damage. The coat falls open. His breath catches.

The lingerie is sheer black lace, delicate enough to feel sinful. You chose it for him. You’ve sent him pictures in it before. But the way he’s looking at you now—it makes your knees weak.

“Beautiful,” he says. It’s quiet. Like he’s talking to himself.

He slips the coat from your shoulders. It falls in a soft thud at your feet.

“Get on the bed.”

You crawl onto the bed, your knees sinking into the mattress, your heartbeat thudding loud in your ears. The sheets are soft beneath your hands, cool against your flushed skin, and you feel him watching you. Not just looking—watching. The heat of his gaze crawls along your spine as you settle on your back, your legs folding to the side, thighs tight with anticipation. He doesn’t move right away. He just stands there, drinking you in like you’re art, like you’re something to be studied.

Then he begins to undress.

Each movement is precise, deliberate. He removes his watch first, setting it on the nightstand with a soft click. Then he unbuttons his shirt, one button at a time, his fingers steady and sure. You watch his chest slowly come into view—firm, broad, sculpted in a way that makes your breath catch. His shoulders are wide, his waist trim, his skin smooth and golden under the low light. When he slides the shirt off and starts on his belt, your thighs press together involuntarily. The buckle clinks. The zipper lowers. And then he steps out of his slacks, revealing long legs, tight black briefs, and the hard line of his cock already straining against the fabric.

He climbs onto the bed with the kind of calm confidence that makes your stomach flip. He doesn’t pounce. Doesn’t rush. He kneels between your legs and runs his hands up your thighs, spreading them slowly, pushing them apart with the patience of someone who knows exactly what you need and intends to give it to you—on his terms. The cool air kisses your heat, and you realize how wet you already are, your arousal sticking to the inside of your thighs. He hums low in his throat as his fingers hook into your panties and begins sliding them down, inch by inch.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he says softly. “I can feel it. You’re soaked.”

You whimper, arching slightly as he tosses the lace aside. He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t make you wait. He leans down, his broad shoulders pushing your thighs wider, and when his mouth finally touches you, you gasp—loud, sharp, uncontrollable. His tongue strokes through your folds with slow, deliberate pressure, tasting you like he has all night. His lips close around your clit, sucking gently, and your back bows off the bed.

“Fuck—Nanami,” you breathe, fingers flying into his hair.

He groans against your pussy, the sound vibrating through you. He eats you like he means it, like it’s his mission. His tongue moves with skill, pressure alternating between soft flicks and firm, devastating licks. One of his hands slides under your ass, lifting your hips, tilting you up so he can go deeper. The other moves between your legs, and when two fingers slide inside you, you cry out.

Your walls clench around him, tight and wet, your body already shaking. He curls his fingers just right and your thighs twitch in response, your breath catching. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let up. He watches you from below, eyes dark and steady, like he’s memorizing every twitch, every moan, every desperate roll of your hips. You’re spiraling. Unraveling.

It hits fast. Hard. Your orgasm crashes over you before you can warn him, a wave of heat and light that rips through your body and leaves you sobbing his name. Your hips buck, your legs tremble, your fingers claw at the sheets—but he holds you down, mouth still on you, tongue relentless.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is wet, his lips slick with you. He looks pleased. Controlled. Like he could keep going. Like he wants to.

“That’s one,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers from your cunt and bringing them to his mouth. He sucks them clean slowly, and you moan again, helpless, already throbbing with the need for more.

He leans over you and kisses you—slow, deep, messy—and you taste yourself on his lips. He rolls his hips against yours, his cock hot and hard against your thigh. Your hands slide down, tugging at the waistband of his briefs, and he lets you peel them down.

He’s thick. Long. Veins running along the shaft, the head flushed and already leaking.

“You want this?” he asks, voice low, rough.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

He lines himself up and pushes in slowly. Inch by inch. Stretching you wide, filling you so deep you can feel it in your stomach. Your jaw drops, a choked moan escaping as your nails sink into his back.

“Oh my god,” you gasp.

“Too much?” he breathes, pausing halfway.

“No—don’t stop. Please. Keep going.”

He groans, sliding in the rest of the way, bottoming out. He stays there, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours.

“You’re so tight,” he murmurs. “So perfect around me.”

Then he moves.

Slow at first. Deep. His hips roll into yours, grinding with each thrust. It’s overwhelming, every drag of his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. You cling to him, moaning into his shoulder, and he presses kisses to your neck, your jaw, your lips.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispers. “Taking me so well. My good girl.”

The praise makes your walls flutter. Your body is already on edge again, hips rolling up to meet his, chasing more.

And then you remember—

“I thought you were gonna fuck me stupid,” you pant.

He stills.

His head lifts. His eyes meet yours.

“I was trying to be gentle,” he says, his voice suddenly darker. “But if you’re going to act like a cock-drunk little slut—”

He pulls out and flips you over in one smooth motion, dragging your hips up, pushing your chest into the mattress. He thrusts back into you hard, deep, and you scream into the sheets.

“—then I’ll fuck you like one”

He doesn’t hold back now. His pace is punishing, hips slamming into yours with the kind of strength that makes the bed creak beneath you. Each thrust drives his cock deeper, harder, making you cry out with every stroke. Your hands fist the sheets, knuckles white, as your body rocks forward from the force of him. He grabs your hips tighter, pulling you back onto him, forcing every inch of him inside like he’s claiming you, ruining you. Your thoughts are gone, scattered, every one of them drowned beneath the sound of skin meeting skin and the filthy things he’s growling into your ear.

“This what you wanted?” he pants, his voice a low growl. “To be fucked like a desperate little whore? You like it like this—don’t you?”

You try to answer, but all that leaves your mouth is a broken moan, high-pitched and needy. Your legs are shaking, your pussy clenching so tightly around him that you feel every twitch of his cock. You’re drooling onto the sheets, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how good it feels, from how deep he’s inside you.

He reaches down and grabs your hair, pulling your head back until your spine arches, your back flush to his chest. His hand slides down, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. He rubs slow, tight circles, the pressure just right. Your body locks up.

“Oh my god—Nanami—fuck—”

“I want you to cum again,” he hisses into your ear. “Cum for me while I’m buried in this tight little pussy. Let me feel you fall apart.”

You do.

It hits harder than the first time, your body convulsing around him, thighs trembling, a sob of pleasure ripping from your throat as your orgasm tears through you. You clench around him so hard it makes him grunt, his rhythm faltering for the first time. He curses under his breath, fucking you through it, prolonging your high until you’re left a shaking, overstimulated mess.

“God, you’re fucking perfect,” he growls.

You collapse forward, cheek pressed to the sheets, too wrecked to hold yourself up anymore. But he doesn’t stop. He slows down, but he keeps moving, long deep strokes that fill you again and again. One hand stays on your hip while the other presses between your shoulder blades, holding you down. You’re gasping, moaning brokenly, your cunt so sensitive you’re already on the edge again.

“Please—please, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growls. “You’re gonna give me one more.”

His cock drags along your walls, thick and pulsing, hitting every spot that makes your vision blur. Your body is on fire. Nerves raw. Everything tightens again, too soon, too fast.

“Cum,” he demands, and the command alone pushes you over the edge.

You scream his name as your third orgasm slams into you, thighs quaking, fingers clawing at the mattress as you fall apart. Your pussy clenches so hard around him that his rhythm shatters. He groans, deep and guttural, thrusts stuttering as he slams into you one final time and spills inside you with a growl.

You can feel it—his cum flooding your pussy, hot and thick, filling you up as his body presses down on yours. His breath is hot against your back. His weight grounding.

He stays like that for a moment, both of you panting, your bodies tangled in heat and sweat. Then he pulls out slowly, gently, and you whimper at the loss. You feel the slick of his release drip down your thigh.

You’re boneless. Floating. Barely able to lift your head.

He pulls you into his arms, rolls you over, kisses your forehead. His hands are soft again, soothing, trailing along your back in lazy circles.

“You did so good,” he murmurs. “So fucking good.”

He holds you until your breathing slows. Until the ache in your muscles fades into something warm and satisfied. Until the world stops spinning quite so fast.

Then he rises. Dresses slowly. Smooths his hair back into place. He leans down to press one last kiss to your lips.

“The room is yours until tomorrow night,” he whispers. “Order whatever you want. Rest. Recover.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “Where are you going?”

He smiles. “I need to get ready for work on Monday.”

And then he’s gone.

The silence after he leaves is loud. You lie there for a while, naked in the sheets that smell like him, your body sore and aching in the best possible way. Everything feels distant. Fuzzy. Like your skin is still buzzing with the echo of his hands, his voice, the way he looked at you like he owned every inch of you. You eventually drag yourself out of bed, your legs unsteady, and pad to the bathroom. The tub is huge, the kind of thing you’d only ever seen in movies, and you don’t think twice before running the water, pouring in a generous stream of lavender bubble bath from the bottle on the counter. You sink into the warmth with a soft moan, letting the water ease the tightness in your thighs, the soreness in your hips. Every shift of your body reminds you of what just happened—of how thoroughly he fucked you, how deeply he filled you, how completely he took you apart.

You stay in the bath until the water starts to cool, then dry off and wrap yourself in one of the fluffy white robes hanging by the door. You pour yourself a glass of champagne from the bottle chilling by the window and collapse onto the bed again, legs curled under you, robe slipping off one shoulder. You stare at the city lights outside the window, the skyline glowing and endless. You feel expensive. Adored. Used and treasured at the same time. The kind of full you didn’t know you were craving.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

You grab it lazily, still smiling.

Nanami has sent you $10,000.

You stare.

You’re up in a flash, jumping on the bed like a maniac, the robe falling off as you laugh and squeal and spin yourself dizzy. You don’t even care. You roll across the mattress, kick your legs in the air, and scream into a pillow. Then you check again—just to be sure. It’s still there. Ten. Thousand. Dollars.

You sink back against the pillows, grinning like a fool, and take a long, slow sip of champagne.

This is the best night of your life.

The weekend melts away in a blur of room service and luxury. You spend hours soaking in the tub, order dessert with every meal, and sleep tangled in hotel sheets that smell like him. You keep your phone close, reading and rereading every message he sends. He doesn’t disappear. He checks in constantly. Tells you how proud he is. How badly he wants you again. How he’s counting the hours until next time.

By Monday morning, you’re still sore. Still giddy. You barely hear your alarm over the buzz of your phone. You get ready for class with your phone in your hand the entire time, texting back between sips of coffee.

I need you again this weekend. Same hotel. I want you on your knees when I walk in.

I can still feel you. Still smell you. I’m not done with you.

You’re practically floating when you meet up with Nobara and Maki in the courtyard.

“You’re glowing,” Maki says. “Who are you texting?”

Nobara leans in to peek. You pull your phone away with a smirk.

“No one.”

“She’s lying,” Maki says. “It’s totally a sugar daddy. Look at her.” She jokes.

You laugh. Shrug. Say nothing.

Because they’re right. And you’re not giving up your secret that easy. The three of you head to class, sliding into your usual seats as you pull out your laptop. You open a blank doc, fingers still dancing over your phone under the table.

I want your pussy on my mouth the second I see you again.

You bite your lip, cheeks hot, and set your phone face-down as the door opens.

Footsteps. A soft clearing of a throat.

You look up and freeze.

Nanami Kento walks to the front of the classroom, calm and collected, setting his briefcase on the podium like he’s done it a hundred times. He’s in a fitted suit, glasses perched on his nose, hair neat and perfect.

He adjusts his tie. Opens his laptop. Looks up.

His eyes meet yours.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t falter. Just offers the faintest flicker of a smile.

“Good morning, everyone,” he says smoothly. “Welcome to Ethics in Literature.

Your stomach drops through the floor.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

[theladystark]

3:36pm — gojo satoru;

perhaps it's because gojo has never needed to drive, that makes him so bad at it.

you clutch the handle on the car door with a deathly grip as gojo manhandles the steering wheel, a cheerful tune on his lips. one elbow rested on an open window, the other casually caressing the wheel, his feet playing toesies with both the brake and the accelerator, you wonder if this was the end for you. at least he was wearing his sunglasses today.

what kind of confidence allows him to drive one handed, you wonder, but the thought is quickly rammed into the crevices of your mind as the car takes another sudden turn. you think you vaguely hear gojo hum a quick "oops, almost missed the exit!" but you'd rather believe he didn't.

you can't even focus on the scenery as it darts past the window, but it looks akin to something from a scifi film when an eager cast of space pilots jump a wormhole. except you’re neither an astronaut nor in space, you’re just an unfortunate soul stuck in a car driven by your best friend.

"that wasn't so bad." gojo chuckles, sparing getou and shoko a glance through the mirror.

"was that the grim reaper i saw around that past corner?" shoko asks, holding her cigarette with a shaky hand. you've never seen her tremble like that before.

"you saw it too?" getou groans, almost taking up the entire space in the backseat as he was previously relocated when gojo decided to take up the challenge of tackling an intersection. "my whole body is sweating. i don’t think i’ve ever sweated this hard in my life"

"don't get your gross germs in my car. and shoko, where did the cigarette come from? didn't i tell you no smoking inside?" gojo complains. his eyes flicker back on his best friend as he doesn’t receive an answer. "i'm being serious, getou, don't sweat on my car, i just got it today!"

"so why are you testing fate with every corner?" your words raise an octave as you look forward again, gojo's car swerving around another one incoming. "gojo, watch out!"

the driver’s face through the tinted window of the other car reflects your own as they barely skim the encounter. an angry voice pokes out from the window but the noise is lost as gojo drives on, completely unfazed.

a series of beeps chase after gojo’s car, and amidst the chaos, was that a siren? the right side of the car flies up as gojo rides over the curb before settling harshing back on the asphalt road. he glances over his shoulder and mutters: “who put a tree in the middle of the road?” under his breath.

your fingers dig into the car door. they hover over the handle, ready to flick it open and jump out.

"eyes on the road!" getou calls from the back.

"my parents told me it's impolite to not look the person you're talking to in the eye!" gojo all but sings.

"let me out." shoko says quietly, and when she's ignored she says it again. "gojo, let me out!"

"you're driving on the wrong side!” your shriek comes out unprepared. “move over the line!"

"it's a double line, that's illegal."

"are you serious? tell me you're not serious. hurry up and move, there's a car coming!"

“i think we’re being chased!”

"stop the car, i want out!"

"we're not even at the school yet, i can't stop now."

someone had to stop him.

"gojo!" you scream. "i want to stop by the convenience store, stop the damn car!"

he glances over at you and you really wish he didn't, because he has to spin the wheel a whole 360 and more to miss a parked car. "why didn't you say so? of course we can stop. now that you mention it, i'm craving icecream."

"i'll get you all the icecream you want if you could just pull over." getou offers from the back. glancing back, you see a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.

"getou, your sweat." you sob and he hastily rubs it away.

"i'm sorry gojo, please don't keep driving because of this."

gojo huffs. "i already said i was stopping. why is everyone acting so weird today?"

the car revs, swerves and spins completely around, throwing you out of your seat. “i saw a store back this way.” the driver says.

getou dominos over on top of shoko who can no longer vocally complain as her throat was seized by fear. you look over at the maniac who caused this situation and realise it was him making the woop woop! noise. you had thought you were hallucinating.

gojo approaches the carpark, yet to everyone's dismay he doesn't slow. "trust me guys, i saw this move in a dream." when no one says anything, he decides its because he needs to clarify. "it was prophetic."

the car continues, accelerates even, as he beelines towards a single parking slot sandwiched between two other cars. there's no way, you think, but gojo was always about doing the impossible. was that shoko praying in the backseat? you didn’t realise she was religious.

just as you were sure you were going to crash, gojo spins the wheel, jerking the car around before reversing straight into the parking slot.

your head slams against the headrest painfully before being forcefully yanked upwards again. the momentum knocks the air out of your lungs and you gasp. distantly, you hear getou groan in pain and when you look back, you find shoko on the floor.

"so?" gojo turns to smile at you, brightly. "how was it?"

you smile back and throw up all over him.

[theladystark]

I have this head cannon that Gojo is hot. Like awkwardly hot.

Not looks, well he is hot in the looks for sure. But his body temperature is so hot its suffocating to even hug him for long periods of time, let alone SLEEP WITH HIM.

We know he is touch starved as a mofo, so when you sleep with him he is 100% clinging onto you all night.

But the issue is HE IS SO HOT

You wake up in the middle of the night, sweating buckets.

Your shirt is stuck to you uncomfortably, your hair is wet and your legs are sticky, and the source of the heat is the 6'3 man behind you, who is currently suction cupped to your back life you give him life.

His arms are around your waist, legs tangled with yours, his chest to your back, head in your neck. Basically every part of him on every part of you.

You let out a groan and shift, trying to push him off. Buttt this does no good as he tightens his arms and whines In his sleep.

"Baby you have to give me some room." You rasp out and push at his stomach as you manage to slide your hand between you both, grimacing at the wetness of your back.

"no." He mumbles and pulls you tighter, making you groan and snap.

"Satoru Gojo. Scoot over now." You say sternly. Pausing your actions to see if he will listen.

"Ughhhhhh" He lets out a sassy and bratty groan and throws his body off of your dramatically.

"There!" He says and turns away from you, the temperature of your body lowering, making you sigh in relief.

"Thank you, diva." You remark, making him lightly kick your leg before you laugh and fall back asleep.

Not even 10 minutes later, you start sweating again. He's back.

[theladystark]

I NEED MORE XADEN PLEASE

Don’t we all😞

[theladystark]

Requests for any fourth wing - iron flame character - Jujutsu kaisen character 😼

[theladystark]

All night - Xaden Riorson

Xaden Riorson x Fem!Reader

Summary: After returning from a mission, he has an ache only you can help.

Warnings: Smut!! (P in V, cream pie, fingering, kissing, unprotected sex, ALWAYS WEAR PROTECTION)

Authors Note: Hey guys this is my first fic pls don't hate lol. Requests always open

Sighing, you slip into your black, silk night set, getting ready for bed. Xaden is out on a mission and shouldn't be back until later tonight. Saying you miss him, is an understatement.

It has been 5 days, Tairn is being a whiny ass and grumpy since he can't see sgaeyl, reflecting on you. Which caused you to be in a bad mood, and you couldn't even fix it because the emotions weren't yours... mostly.

"God what the fuck crawled up your ass?" Ridoc replies to your snappy reply at one of his comments. He stands up from the sparing mat and stretches his back out.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, you sit up from the mat and rest your elbows on your knees, your hand going into your now messy and loose braid in frustration.

"Im sorry, I have been in a bad mood all weekend." You reply, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath to take control of your emotions again.

"We can pick this up tomorrow, go get laid or something." Ridoc laughs at his own joke like a moron and grabs his bag as you roll your eyes, knowing you would have to wait until later tonight to even get close to being laid.

Now, you slip into the empty, cold silk sheeted bed and pull the blankets over your shoulders.

The amount of blankets less than before since Xaden threw them off one night, saying you were a furnace and one blanket was more than enough. But now you lay cold, with one thin blanket.

Letting out a irritated sigh you force yourself to slip into sleep, forgetting about the cold and focusing on trying to sleep.

Around 2 or 3 am, you feel the blankets shift behind you, a warm, heavy arm pulls you from the cloudy state of sleep, and drapes over your waist. You are pulled into a strong, warm grip, your back on a firm and toned chest.

Xaden.

You smile and lean back into him, your body suddenly not feeling cold anymore.

"Go back to sleep, my love." He rasps into your ear. Leaving slow kisses behind it, going down your neck.

Your hand goes into his dark locks and pulls him closer, the quiet night turning lust filled quickly.

"I missed you so much." He whispers, sliding his hand under your silk shirt.

A hiss leaves your lips at his cold hands, but quickly turning into heavy breaths and whimpers.

"I missed you too." You speak back. He quickly turns you on your back and he hovers over you slightly, pushing your hair back and caressing your cheek bone.

"You are so beautiful" He whispers so quietly, you almost didn't hear him before he presses his lips onto yours. Your eyes flutter closed as your hands find home once more in his hair.

His free hand goes down to your thigh and hikes your leg over his hip, rubbing small circles on the soft flesh before the same hand slides up and into your shorts.

His hands make quick work of sliding past the fabrics covering your heat, once he passes them, he presses two rough fingers onto your sensitive bud, sending a shock of pleasure through your body.

You throw your head back in pleasure as he rubs soft circles on your clit, his mouth wondering down your neck, sucking and biting your soft spot causing you to whine and whimper as he goes lower.

Removing your shirt, he kisses the valley of your breast before latching onto one of the sensitive buds.

"You were all I thought about. Couldn't wait to get back." He says, his words holding a promise behind them.

You buck into his hand that moves lower, to your wet hole. Subconsciously, you spread your legs wider for him. He smirks and quickly removes the silk shorts you wore, throwing them onto the floor to be worried about later.

He inserts two fingers into you and your jaw slacks, and eyes shut at the feeling.

Slowly, his fingers pump in and out of you, releasing moans and whimpers of his name and you arch your back to try and get more of his touch.

"Xaden.." You whisper into his ear, airy and breathless already and all he did was finger you for 3 minutes at most.

You feel his lips on your shoulder as he hums a reply, ushering you to keep talking.

"I need you" You whine, sounding fucked out already, which he notices and smiles.

If you weren't behind manhandled onto your knees and elbows right now, you would have been in awe of any sort of smile you got from him, but its not like you could focus in anything but the utter need you felt for him right now.

You hear him rustle around, most likely removing clothes that got in his way, and he come back to you.

His calloused hands rub circles on your arched back, squeezing your hips and then running his hands down your back.

"If it gets to much..." You cut him off.

"I know what to say please for the love of GOD fuck-" Your words are cut short by a fast and hard thrust into you from behind, you immediately moan into the mattress, his hips snap back and In with out giving you time to adjust.

Your nails grip the black sheets and you moan into them. His hands finding place on your hips and using them to help snap in and out of you quickly.

You soon feel your high creep up into your abdomen and your moans grow more high pitched.

Xadens hand goes to your neck and gently pulls your back to his chest, his hips loosing their perfect rhythm as he nears his release.

He cranes your face to his and smashes his lips onto yours, a mix of moans, tongues, and teeth. Both of your highs approach and he shoves his face into your neck, groans leaving his lips and moans leave yours. The feeling of his load coating you walls makes the orgasm 10x better.

Panting, he releases you and guides you down to the bed. Kissing you once more on the back before flipping you over onto your back, him in between your legs.

The look in his eyes tells you, y'all aren't done. Not even close.

[theladystark]

Guys what about a Xaden fic based off the lyric ‘we be all night’??? Smut????