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paige-creates · 3 years ago

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Fake It 'Til You Make It (Guzma x GN!Reader One-Shot)

This work was inspired by @kentoszn 's Haikyuu!! post which ignited some repressed trauma and feelings™. The piece was lovely, and I enjoyed it thoroughly, but it got my brain churnin', and I had to write smth. This is kind of a vent piece and the experiences mentioned (not all the mushy comfort shit, unfortunately) are very real things I've dealt with. This is 100% gender neutral, and the reader's genitalia isn't mentioned. TW: the reader does have a panic attack, but big bad Guzma is there to help! It gets a little ns/fw in like, two spots. Hurt/Comfort and it's a little cheesy at the end. Feel free to give this a kudos on Ao3, I'd love you 5ever <3

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Something in your head, curling up and getting comfortable, tells you to hide in a corner. A sinking feeling in your chest that you want to go lay down and be still like an injured animal. All the while, Guzma pistons his hips into you with all his effort, love, and whole-hearted intentions to make you feel good. The thought that you’re wasting his affections and his time, all while moaning out but slowly losing grip on your sense of pleasure, has a guilty sickness washing over you. You do your best to ignore the overwhelming sense of dread that threatens to consume your good time almost entirely. You whine his name, rock your hips back into his with every thrust as best you can, his weight smothering you pleasantly and thick cock stuffing you full. You hold onto the now-fleeting notion of impending orgasm, focusing on his lips against your neck, but you know soon enough that your thoughts have all but turned that into a pipe dream. He’s been railing you thoroughly for an hour now, and in the beginning, you were thrilled; you’d been the one to initiate this in the first place. After subtle doubts had begun to consume you, you decided it was better not to ruin this. You were the one who had asked for it in the first place. You’d give him his fill; after all, he’s earned it with how attentive he’s been throughout the evening, and you could eventually fake your way out so as not to create an unpleasant or awkward circumstance. Then you could go back to curling up on the couch and finishing your movie night together as planned.

When you felt his pace quicken, you threw your head back, whimpering his name and muttering “incoherently” about how close you were, throwing out a feverish moan as the finale of your show. You were confident in your acting. Though it had only happened occasionally, this wasn’t the first time you’d faked an orgasm to escape the gnawing in your gut. The times before, your plight had gone unnoticed. Whether it be a fling or an oblivious long-term partner, they kept on until they’d finished and then continued about their business. Guzma was different, though. Where some wouldn’t notice because they couldn’t tell (or just weren’t paying attention), Guzma was always looking for something in you—searching for confirmation that his efforts, in bed or your daily lives, were living up to your expectations. It was a necessity to him that you were getting enough from your time with him, that he wasn’t disappointing you somehow because he valued what the two of you have, and he had worked hard to make it this far with you. He was addicted to your happiness.

It only took a minute before his pace slowed. You could see his expression, previously pinched with the pleasure of your heat and what Guzma had assumed was the build of mutual ecstasy, slowly fall away to something unreadable. There were flashes of different emotions on his face, each twisting your gut further into a knot. There was something akin to betrayal or confusion, then a flicker of insecurity. Eventually, he settled on a hurt sort of anger. Maybe because you’d essentially just lied to him, or because he was upset with himself somehow, you weren’t sure. Either way, he knew what you’d just done.

While you wanted to appreciate him noticing and caring enough about you to be able to tell, you begin to wish he didn’t so you could get away from this situation and the consequences you feared it would bring. He stops, pulling out of you and giving you what feels like miles worth of space. No longer is his comforting weight settled over you; you lie there feeling exposed, waiting for what comes next. The tense growl of his voice in the quiet room jolts you out of your fearful thoughts, “Why would you- Just- Why? Did I do something?” Guzma’s voice softens by a fraction at the minute furrow of your brow, trying to calm himself and his own racing thoughts.

This is the situation you were dreading. You asked for this, begged Guzma so sweetly while you were settled in his lap in the living room of your apartment to help you, that you needed him, wanted him to fill you up. Now, you were feeling guilty and anxious because your traitorous brain had sunken so deep into its thoughts that you changed your mind and couldn’t stuff your feelings back down and take it like the good, loving little pet you were. You soon caved to his unwavering expression of hurt, words spilling a-mile-a-minute in broken pleas. “No, no, no, you were good, you were so fucking good! I just got tired. My back cramped up a little, y’know? And-”

“Stop.” Your lips seal shut at the command, your eyes wide and alert to every movement, waiting for anger or disappointment to wash over him before he finally leaves you there on your own to sulk. You can’t help the sting you feel in your chest, guilt eating you further with every passing second. Instead, one large warm palm rests against your cheek, keeping your gaze on him and your mind grounded in the current situation. “Take a deep breath, in ‘n out. Then try again. Don’t lie this time, yeah?”

The burning in your throat suffocates you as you grasp helplessly for the right words to make the ill feelings disappear and bring back a peaceful atmosphere. The air constricts every time you open your mouth, and your first successful attempt to force out a sound is nothing more than a pained squeak. You choke on the pathetic noise. A sharp, panicked inhale is the only preamble to a hot tear rolling down your cheek before you feel an unpleasant heat roll over your shoulders, an uncomfortable itch up your spine that climbs the back of your neck. Instead of trying to explain, both hands quickly cover your mouth, stifling the first few sobs and turning your knuckles white from the harsh grip. No matter what you do to quell the onslaught of fear and uncertainty, it steamrolls you anyway. For a moment, Guzma is at a loss on what to do. He helplessly watches as your shoulders curl in and you duck your head to hide your weepy eyes. Before either of you know it, he’s scooped you up into his arms and you’re pressed tightly to his chest as warm hands rub circles into your back. Even if he doesn’t understand the whole situation, he’ll be there to help pick you up and put you together again.

An eternity of soft shushing and repeats of, “I’m here, it’s okay,” eventually settle you enough to speak. You shakily draw in breaths of air; arms wrapped tightly around Guzma’s waist as your hands grip desperately to his shoulder blades, face hidden in the crook of his neck. Your voice cracks on the first word, so you clear your throat and try again.

“You are so wonderful… I love everything you do for me, and you do so much,” Guzma’s arms squeeze around you in a comforting gesture at the words, but he stays quiet so you can finish. “I just felt kinda, I don’t know, off—no reason why. And I tried, I tried so goddamn hard to ignore it, but I couldn’t. Figured it’d be easier to play my part, take it and be good, make sure you were taken care of, y’know? Then I could ignore my feelings ‘til they went away and make myself feel better with cuddles and our movie ‘n all that.” You pause, getting your thoughts together to keep your heart from racing out of your chest again. “I started it, being all needy ‘n shit. I couldn’t just “nope” out halfway through, but I didn’t wanna tell you I wasn’t feeling it, so I just went along until I could deal with my dumb, sad brain on my own.”

The sigh that escapes his lips is both affectionate and exasperated like he doesn’t know what to do with you, but he couldn’t possibly give you up. “Aight, you need to listen closely, and don’t you dare forget what ’m boutta say,” Guzma grabs your chin, bringing your head back enough to look him in the eyes. “You own your body. If ya change your mind about anything, say so. I have no right ta make a fuss, ain’t got no place to be tellin’ you ta get over it, nothin’.” He plants a forceful kiss on the crown of your head like he’s trying to press his feelings into you with a well-placed smooch. It’s enough to pull a laugh out of you.

“I love you, stupid. Don’t think for even a moment that I’d rather have half-assed sex than to know you’re feelin’ alright. I don’t care if we’re goin’ all out on a holiday, ‘r if you blew me ‘n begged on your knees five minutes before. You’re mine, ‘n I’m supposed to take care of ya. Can’t do that if ya don’t tell me what you need. ‘n if that means stoppin’ and goin’ to get cocoa, cause you don’t feel safe or you ain’t in the right headspace, tha’s fine.” You feel a flurry of aggressive pecks to the top of your head before he pauses. “What made ya’ think like that in the first place?”

You contemplate for a moment, recalling every unpleasant scenario that led to the plague of thoughts that brought you to this point. From a rebound one-night-stand that left you with twenty minutes of shitty sex, unfinished and unsatisfied, paired with a $180 hotel bill, to years of a relationship where you never felt desirable, and your partner really didn’t know what they were doing despite your attempts at communication, the list dragged on. You mumble out, ashamed of yourself for some reason and not of the list of fools you’d had the misfortune of being with earlier in life, “Bad sex, feeling unwanted, and being used as a glorified cum-dumpster, I guess.”

You hear a disappointed ‘tsk’ at your comment, Guzma shaking his head before meeting your eyes again. “Letting you know now, I will absolutely fucking destroy anyone who’s ever made ya feel like that, ‘n I do want names. Also, they were idiots, if that wasn’t obvious enough already. Lucky for you, I got common sense.”

“Most of the time.” The hand that ruffles your hair in retaliation holds nothing but love for you, and you smile despite eating a few tousled strands in the process.

Guzma dramatically clears his throat before continuing, “Hush you, now lemme dote on ya for a minute.” His hands run along your skin slowly, like he’s appraising fine jewelry, and you feel a comfortable warmth settle in the confines of your chest as you hug him tighter. “I want you when ya wake up with a bird’s nest on your head in the mornin’, ‘n I want ya when your legs are all prickly ‘cause you haven’t shaved in three weeks. I want ya with your eye bags from pullin’ all-nighters and when you run around in the clothes ya stole from me. I wanna hear every goofy lil’ thing you say, and I never wanna miss the dumb baby voice you use when yer talkin’ to pokemon. I want all your time, day ‘n night, and every second between. So don’t ever hide your thoughts from me, ya hear?”

Guzma’s only warning is a puppy-eyed pout before you launch your entangled forms backward to lay on his chest and smatter his face in kisses. For a while, you both lay there. A comfortable silence settles over the room while you enjoy the calm after the storm. What feels like hours amounts to roughly twenty minutes, but you both relish it either way. Eventually, you realize you’ve spent the better half of your night naked and sobbing, so you poke your loving boyfriend’s side. Guzma takes a moment to look at you consideringly, fond eyes roaming over your relaxed expression and wild hair before he seems to read your mind. “Wanna finish the movie ‘n order pizza? I want some TLC from my Cutiefly.” The slow, sweet kiss you give him is all the response he needs before Guzma slips on boxer briefs and a t-shirt. He pulls a discarded hoodie of his from your bedroom floor and tugs it over your raised arms, giving you a playful kiss when your head pops through the neck hole. Once you’re carried like royalty and seated in his lap on the living room couch, you press play on the remote and enjoy a relaxing evening, feeling much closer to Guzma than before.

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