#but I like that line about how he’s always been on the other side and it needs smth in between but i like how it falls into using specific | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yourtamaki · 2 days

Text

o, come, be buried / a second time within these arms

zoro x f!reader

word count: 3k

warnings: hurt/comfort, sex as a form of comfort, fingering, cuddlefucking, creampie, scent kink, oral (f!receiving), cum play, cum eating, violent imagery, bit of aftercare

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there is a storm building inside you.

zoro can see it raging even as you keep your face turned from him. the room dark save for the moonlight that streams in through the open window, just bright enough to spot your outline curled up in bed, covers tucked up under your chin. lines of tension keep your back rigid and shoulders hunched, your breathing shaky and slow as you tell him to leave.

you’re vicious gales and crashing waves wrapped into one, devastating and beautiful.

“you don’t want to be around me right now,” you say, words muffled by your pillow.

“don’t tell me what i want,” he doesn't try to bite back the anger that laces itself through his tone. zoro has never censored himself from you before and he wasn't about to start now.

ire thrums hot in his veins, burning and boiling away beneath his skin. he has always given you every part of himself, heart served in his open, blood-stained palms, for better and most certainly for worse.

the thought of you holding yourself back from him, that there’s a part of you that he’s being denied, sets his teeth on edge. he'd been searching for you all day, prowling around the ship like a caged animal until finally found his way to where his search should have began, the tiny storage room that had become your shared quarters.

“you pissed at me?” he asks.

“no,” you say.

“want me to kill anyone?”

“no.”

it grates on him that there’s no enemy for you to sic him on, no bones to crack, no blood to spill. your pain deserves retribution and he is the blade that would carry it out, if only you would wield him, "then i'm staying."

"zoro, please. just go."

“who do you think you’re protecting by hiding yourself away?” he steps in closer, right to the edge of the bed but makes no move to touch you, “cause it’s not me and it sure as fuck isn’t you.”

you throw a dagger of a glare his way, so sharp it could make a man bleed before he even knew he’d been cut. he doesn’t care. a small price to pay for your gaze.

zoro is too loyal of a beast to flinch away the first time you flash your fangs at him.

you hold his gaze for a moment longer before turning back around to face the wall once more. in your silence, he resolves himself to sitting on the floor by your bedside until he can be of some fucking use to you. zoro would lick crumbs of affection out of the palm of your hand. if the closest you'll let him be to you right now is knelt on the ground, keeping vigil, then he'll take it. he's crouched halfway down when he hears you call for him.

“baby, get in.”

how you have enough sweetness in you to spare him a kind word even when you have none for yourself, he will never understand. zoro takes a moment to pull his swords free from where they hang on his hip, propping them up against the wall where they’ll still be in arm's reach before he pulls back the covers and settles in next to you.

you're cold to the touch despite having been buried under the blanket, dressed only in a simple shirt and underwear and zoro is quick to throw an arm around you and pull you in by your waist until you’re pressed flush against him, his other arm slipping under your head for you to rest on. he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, breathes you in and for a moment he can almost smell the scent of your hurt lingering on your skin, thick and bitter as blood.

there’s an urge, ever present and never sated, to dig his teeth into the side of your neck and bite down until iron coats his tongue, to taste you, know you, in a way no one else ever has or will. it’s an urge he can only hold at bay by pressing open mouth kisses to your throat and feeling your pulse flutter against his tongue.

you slowly start to melt in his arms, the tension you wore like ill-fitting armour stripping off you piece by piece with every kiss until you’re free from its hold, warm and light.

“better?” he asks, slipping his hand under your shirt and pressing his palm flat against your stomach just to feel it rise and fall, follows the rhythm of it and matches his breaths to yours. the reassurance that you're whole and safe is a cool balm to his worries.

“a little bit,” you whisper.

“but you need more,” it’s hardly a question that needs to be answered, not with the way you’ve started to shift in his hold.

“you don’t have to—”

“i do. i want to.”

and there’s more he could say, he knows there is. pretty poetry to comfort you, sweet nothings to soothe you. but what use would empty words be to you? they can’t hold you, can’t keep you warm, can’t wipe your tears.

zoro can. he will. for you, he’d do anything and everything. all and more.

the room settles into silence, his offer hanging in open air and ripe for your taking. you don't reach out for it, not yet, but zoro doesn't mind. he can wait.

“impatience is a swordsman’s undoing,” his master had once told him a lifetime ago when zoro’s palms were still soft enough to bleed and grief was a companion so new it still stepped on his heels as it dogged his footsteps.

of the two of you, patience has always been your strong suit rather than his. it was your patience that brought you together, when you stepped into his life with a hand outstretched and he met you the same way he met all good things that tried to enter his life, with a snarl and blood stained teeth.

zoro kept you at a careful distance with all the wariness of a distrustful stray, always watching but never getting close. it was you who slowly bridged the gap, gracing him with kindness and company he'd done nothing to earn but gorged himself on anyway.

it was only because of your patience that he knows the bliss of falling asleep and waking up with the warm weight of you in his arms. the least he could do is pay you back with what you've always freely given him. so zoro holds you close and waits.

and waits.

and smiles, sharp and proud, when you take his hand that still rests on your stomach and lower it until he’s cupping you between your legs, the heat of you searing his palm even through your panties.

your hips jerk when zoro doesn’t move, a soft whine catching in your throat when his other arm circles around your chest and holds you still against him, “zoro.”

“i've got you,” he says with a kiss behind your ear, toying with the waistband of your panties before sliding his hand inside.

he slides his middle finger down your slit, dipping his fingertips into the slick heat of your cunt to wet them before drifting back up to where you need him most. there’s no rush as zoro rubs neat, tight circles against your clit, slow and firm even as you buck and try to grind down on him.

he wants you to feel every moment of this, to savour it, to drown in pleasure so deep you never want to come up for air.

another kiss to your throat, one on your jaw and you finally melt back into him, legs spreading just enough for zoro reach lower and start to ease a thick finger inside you.

“there you go, baby, that’s it,” he says, “let me in.”

you swallow him down to his knuckle, trembling in his arms when zoro slips in a second finger and crooks them to rub against the spot that never fails to pull the prettiest sounds out of you.

he shifts, trying to move lower between your legs without pulling his fingers out so he can taste where you’re wet and aching for him but you stop him by threading your fingers through his short strands, keeping him in place.

“what?” he asks, “you don’t want my mouth?”

“no, not— not right now. just stay close. keep holding me. please,” he hates how small you sound.

“i’m here. i’m right here. fucking kills me knowing you were in here hurting by yourself."

"i'm sorry.”

"don’t,” the anger he felt when you tried to send him away rears up once more. an apology is the last thing he wants to hear from you right now, “just find me next time. doesn't matter when or where. you find me. got it?"

“yeah, i got it,” you start rocking back into him, soft ass grinding against his clothed cock, “zoro.”

“i know. i know you want it, baby, but i gotta stretch you out first. can’t fit when you’re this fucking tight.”

your answer is lost in a moan as he eases in a third finger, thumb pressing against your clit. the angle isn’t kind on his wrist but zoro keeps his pace steady, spreading and curling his fingers until you’re soaked and soft and ready for him. he pulls his hand out of your panties, kissing your nape when you whine from the loss before he licks the taste of you off his fingers.

“i'm not going anywhere,” he says, "keep your eyes on me."

zoro waits until you turn in his arms and he has your gaze before he gets out of bed and undresses, leaving his clothes in a pile next to his blades. you sit up to tug your panties down and kick them off, your shirt following soon after.

you’re bare and soft and holding out a hand for him to take. zoro laces his fingers through yours and joins you once more, stripped of his swords, his clothes, and his restraint.

you don't crash into each other so much as you collide into a bruise of a kiss. it aches more than it soothes but the shared pain of it only has him pressing closer to you, your soft tits pressed to his chest, legs intertwined and weeping cock trapped between your stomachs.

he reaches up to cup your cheeks and breaks the kiss to pull back just far enough to take in the sight of you, all swollen lips and glassy eyes. it takes a heartbeat longer than it should for you to focus on him. the storm is still raging inside you but zoro refuses to lose you to it. he stands firm against the buffeting winds that threaten to rip you away from him and swipes his thumbs over your cheekbones.

“still with me?” he asks.

you turn into his touch and kiss the rough centre of his palm, “‘m here.”

"then take what you need, baby."

you slide a hand between your bodies, taking his cock into your hand and guiding his tip to your entrance. even with all the prep, it takes some time to sink inside you, time you spend peppering kisses across his face. he bears them as he bears the scars that litter his body. with pride. with honour.

zoro bottoms out with a low groan, grabbing you under your knee and hooking your leg over his hip to slip in that much deeper. every sense is flooded with you. the wet heat of you wrapped around his cock, the heady scent of your sweat and need swimming around his head, soft skin beneath his palms.

entangled and weaved together like this, heart and breath as one, zoro is drawn into the eye of your storm.

your pleasure is his, your pain his own.

still, clear waters surround you both as he waits for you to adjust. with how closely he watches you, he knows you’re ready even before you wrap both arms around him and start to roll your hips.

he keeps one hand under your knee, the other sliding down your back to rest on your ass, and uses his grip on you to pull you into a slow, dirty grind.

“oh fuck,” you moan as the two of you find your rhythm together. zoro barely pulls out, keeping himself buried to the hilt inside you. you jerk back as he rolls his hips just enough to grind your clit up against his pelvis, his firm hold on you the only thing keeping you pinned in place.

“easy now. don’t run from me.”

time slows to a crawl, every moment yawning and stretching into the next, slow and sweet as honey. you tip forward, closing what little space there still was between you to pull him into a kiss that has all the intimacy of a hard-fought spar, of learning to move together, of missteps and growing pains, of getting the wind knocked out of him only to be pulled right back on his feet.

you’re close, all worked up and sensitive from his fingers, cunt fluttering and clenching down around him as you near your high. zoro chases your pleasure down, a starving mutt set loose upon a feast. he uses the little leverage he has to wrestle you on to your back and fuck into you with short, heavy thrusts.

“c'mon, baby, that's it,” he says, bent low to brush his lips against your ear, “let go.”

he reaches down between you, thumb pressing firm against your swollen clit and you’re gone, swept out to sea as your high crashes down over you in waves. zoro hardly feels his own orgasm rip through him, too caught up in watching you shake apart and be remade in his arms.

all is still as you pant and come back into yourself. your hand slips back into his and squeezes once. he’s not sure whether you’re trying to reassure yourself that he’s still here or that you are but he squeezes back all the same.

“can i eat you out now?”

and for the first time since he stepped into the room, a smile breaks over your face, bright as the dawn sun breaking through an overcast sky. you pull out of his hold, his soft cock sliding out, and settle on your back, legs falling open, “go for it.”

zoro eases himself down between your legs, throwing your thighs over his shoulders, never letting your hand slip free from his. he takes stock of your fresh fucked cunt, clit puffy and hole clenching around nothing, dripping with him. the scent of you, of the two of you, is thickest here, heavy in his nose, and zoro breathes you in with deep, greedy lungfuls, spent cock twitching against his thigh.

he dives in, catching what leaks out of you on his tongue before pulling back and dribbling the mess of cum and spit all over your pussy.

“nasty,” you say and zoro wants to kiss the curl that sits pretty on the corner of your lips. he settles for kissing your clit instead.

“you like it.”

“i like you.”

you wield your honesty with all the ease and carnage zoro wields his swords, sliding it between his ribs and piercing his heart clean through. the pain is lost as he’s distracted by the light pouring in as the moon rises higher into the night sky.

or maybe it’s your eyes that take the pain away because it’s only through them that he notices how bright the moon’s light shines tonight.

zoro devours you, gaze fixed to yours, one hand still holding yours while the other arm keeps your hips pinned to the bed. he takes his time cleaning you up, lapping at your folds until only the taste of you remains. it’s only then that he sucks your clit into his mouth, slipping two fingers inside you to give you something to clench down on.

you are a vision in your bliss, one he has no right to bear witness to. a lifetime of blood and blades and butchery shouldn't be rewarded with the softness of you in his hand and on his tongue. it's not right.

but as you take hold of his hair to keep his mouth pressed flush against your cunt, zoro finds he couldn't give less of a shit if it's right. all that matters is if he does right by you. there's an oath in every broad stroke of his tongue, a vow in every kiss to your clit, to take care of you in all the ways you need, in all the way he knows how.

today and for all days.

your orgasm is a gentle thing that washes over you and steals your breath for a moment, smaller than the first but leaves you just as ruined.

zoro takes his rightful place by your side once more, gathering you up in his arms and running his knuckles up and down your spine.

"thank you," you press a kiss to his cheek, just below where his scar ends. he accepts the kiss but not the gratitude that comes with it.

a hound needs no thanks for fulfilling its nature.

later, he will carry you off to the baths, let you pop open bottles for him to smell that make his nose itch but that make you beam, wash your back, and wait with the patience you’ve taught him for you to share what’s trapped inside your head.

he may not understand, may not have the comfort of words to give you, but he will listen. and he will stay.

but that is for later.

for now, zoro holds you to his chest and watches over you, moonlight and peace washing over you as you catch your breath.

dedicated to: mah wife @katslutski and loml @saotoru

#zoro smut #zoro x reader #one piece smut #one piece x reader #roronoa zoro smut #roronoa zoro x reader

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luveline · 2 days

Note

Hey if you're still taking requests could I get any sort if angst to comfort for zombie au steve? Been feeling down lately and I've always loved that series!

ty for requesting! zombie au. fem, 1.5k

The new pencils are oil-cored, as opposed to his last ones, which had been wax. They were just fine, but these oil pencils allow him to blend colours and shades with more finesse than ever. He can pour twenty different colours into the tone of your skin and have them blend into a real, phototechnical you.

He’s pretty proud of this one.

He wakes up first every morning, allowing for time where you’re unaware and he’s got nothing to do. He’s sketched you so many times it comes naturally. Steve probably wouldn’t need to look, but watching you sleep is half the joy of drawing you.

You're drooling a little.

Steve puts the handful of pencils he’d been using to colour your neck back into his pen case. He puts the case and his sketchbook on top of his main bag, shoving it into a corner of your tent with the rest of the bags to climb back onto the bed. It’s a portable cushioning made for camping, and it’s nothing like a mattress, but it is much kinder to your backs than sleeping on the ground. Warmer, too.

He pushes your head back, knowing it will wake you, his thumb to the little drool line to wipe it away, his palm on your cheek to hold it.

“Hello.” He kisses your other cheek as your lashes twitch. Doesn’t even think about not doing it. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” you mumble strangely.

“What’s that?” he says, soft to match your quiet. His breath kisses your lips. “What’s wrong? You sound sad.”

You force your eyes apart, and you feel along the mattress with your hand. Steve watches in real time as your eyes fill with tears, huge, heavy tears that well in the corner of your left and spill from the right to wet the pillow under your head.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, the effort expended to stay calm so gutting he has to squeeze the pillow just shy of your head.

You grab for him, blankets and your half-open sleeping bag crinkling but not too thick to feel the force of your fingers gripping his sides.

You must’ve had a bad dream, that’s what he thinks. He’s had enough of them, and he’s unfortunately cried after almost all of them. Sometimes you’ve seen it, sometimes you haven’t, but you look at him with love no matter what —he can forget dreams of losing you when you’re murmuring niceness in his ear, and he can give it back to you.

“It’s okay,” he says, letting you squeeze him hard. “Don’t cry.” And that’s a little awkward of him, that sneaking panic, but he’s never claimed to be a professional.

You cry in a weird breath that borders a gag. “I’m so-sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s fine. I have bad dreams too. You know that.”

Steve attempts to get both arms behind your shoulders, pulling you into him, sitting you up. He can’t cope with how quickly you’ve fallen apart. To wake up crying, how scary the dream must’ve been, he hates it.

“It’s okay,” he says.

“It was a good dream,” you say.

Steve frowns. “Okay, so what’s the problem?”

“We had a house. We had a dog. I don’t– don’t even know if you like cats, but you had a dog, and we,” —you sob between words, not too loudly as to travel far, but aching— “were planning a trip. It felt so real, Steve. You were so happy.”

Steve tries to process it as fast as he can. “Oh,” he says softly, hand lax where it had been rubbing your shoulder.

“You were so happy,” you say again, burying the tip of your nose into his neck. You’re practically crawling atop him, but he’s strong enough to stop you from laying him down.

“It’s okay, honey. Jesus,” he says, patting your back again. “It’s alright. It’s okay.”

“We’ll never have those things.”

“Baby, who says so?” he asks in a murmur.

“We’ll never get to go anywhere together–”

“It feels like we’ve seen pretty much all of America,” he says. He’s joking, but travelling with you from place to place has felt expansive. You’ve seen forests and lakes, a thousand different houses, hundreds of neighbourhoods, and street art and installations and billboards for movies that were never screened. Steve’s seen about as much of the world as he wants to see. “I’d just stay in this tent with you forever if they let us, we don’t need to go anywhere else.”

“You wanted to see palm trees,” you say, sniffling and pained as your tears warm the curve of his trap.

“I’ve seen them,” Steve says. “Don’t worry. I’ve already seen palm trees. A whole bunch of them. Don’t worry about what I wanted in the dream, it was just a dream.”

He gives you a quick kiss, his lips to the very edge of your temple.

“I feel like I’m gonna be sick.”

Steve nods. He draws from you reluctantly and opens the tent, ushering you on knees to sit out in the cool air. He sits next to you, dewdrops from the grass wetting his jeans, the sky a humming of early morning colours; the sun rises in bands of orange and raspberry pink, darkness above, sun rays kissing the sides of tents and the portables in the distance.

You take deep breaths. Steve holds your hand, the two of you looking up at the strange sky.

“We’ll never be that happy,” you say.

Steve can hear your agony, and he knows what you mean. He thinks of that life with you and never lets himself think far. You would've gone to college, maybe, and Steve would’ve drove to visit you —he would’ve moved. Maybe in your second year you’d live together in a suburb just between college and his job, whatever it is he’d ended up doing, in a house you chose, with a ring on your finger. Steve wants kids but if you don’t then perhaps you’d have had none, but he still likes to picture you with your babies, a big family, years later. And maybe he’d have a dog. A silly looking one with bark worse than its bite.

And you’d be together. You would be happy. Nothing to hurt you. Nothing to lose you to. You’d never worry where your next meal was coming from, you’d never feel cold.

Steve breathes out. Sniffs biting air. “We’ll never be that happy. That kind of happy. We’re never gonna go on trips, maybe we won’t ever have a house, but–“ He pulls your hand toward him, your eyes latching on to his. “But maybe we will. We might not get to watch cable, but we can have a tv, in a living room. We can live together, and maybe we will take trips. I don’t know. I don’t know what we’ll have, but I’m already happy. You don’t have to cry about me being happy.” He shakes his head. “Shit, you shouldn’t. I want that life with you so much I dream about it too, but I have this one.”

“You think we’ll have a house?” you ask hopefully.

“We can’t live like this forever.” He’s promising it. “Something has to give.”

“I want us to have more,” you say.

A weak confession, your cheeks wet with tears but eyes thankfully drying, your eyelids puffy already from sleep and crying alike. Steve wants you to have everything, even if everything is a stupid thing to think you’ll have.

“We will.” Steve closes one eye, a sort of prolonged wink of pain as his nose wrinkles. “But this is enough for now, right?”

“No.”

You’re kidding, to Steve’s relief.

He laughs and elbows you, glad to see your smile as you evade poorly. “Say it’s enough!”

“No way.”

You don’t wait for him to pull you in or ask if it’s alright, flopping without ceremony into his lap, and then turning toward him to hug his stomach. He looks down at you fondly, hand rubbing up your warm back. You’re still clammy from sleeping, but you’re not crying anymore.

“It’s really cold out here.”

“I know.” He blows a warm breath in your ear. “Do you still feel sick? Don’t barf in my lap.”

“I’m sorry, Steve. It just felt so real.”

His voice turns to a silky whisper he’s only ever used in love. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. We never would’ve… I’d never get to be here,” —you squeeze him around the waist— “if we were in a world where we also get the house and the dog and… the family…”

“But it would’ve been nice,” Steve finishes, looking up from your back to watch as the raspberry bands of pink turn to blue.

“It would’ve been perfect.”

#steve zombie!au #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington #steve harrington fic #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington drabble #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things

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themaraudersjournal · 1 day

Text

the sting of jealousy

dating the three boys comes with rewards—and consequences—one of them being dealing with your jealous roommate when she starts to bully you. you try to keep it from them—key word, try—you could only hide it for so long.

poly!marauders x fem!reader

tw: established relationship, hurt/comfort, angst w/ a happy ending, bullying (r receiving—r gets called a whore), injuries (r receiving, bruises), marauder’s coat described being loose on r, not really proofread (i’ll come back later to do so)

a/n: this is my first ever marauders fic and fuck is it hard to write for them. all of this is thanks to @ellecdc <33

Whenever you feel like you’re taking two steps forward, there will come the day you have to take one step back. It reminds you in a way that life isn't always fair, that for every once of happiness you get there'll be a bad day on the way to keep you humble.

Since you’ve been dating the marauders it's like you’ve been placed in the middle of a stage with a light shining right on you. You’re not entirely a nobody anymore, their reputations succeeding your previous one. Being friends with them was one thing, but dating them is another–and it’s brought a lot of negative attention since you’ve seemingly “crossed the line” for a lot of onlookers. Those who fantasized about being with the three before bed and during classes were not happy to find out that you’ve taken the place they’ve only dreamed of.

They just couldn't wrap their minds around why they’d open up their circle for someone like you.

Your roommate–after witnessing a kiss placed onto your cheek–felt her heart drop. The door had barely shut and she was already moving off of her bed.

“Did James Potter just kiss your cheek?”

“Oh, it's nothing,” you waved her off, moving to your bed to remove a coat that your roommate recognized was too loose on you.

“That’s not nothing,” she slides to sit beside you, “how long have you been with James?”

You fiddled with the coat, “And Remus and Sirius. I believe I’ve been with them for a month now.”

She nods, biting her cheek and looking away, “so the rumors are true.”

“What rumors?”

You watch her stand, eyes following as she wanders back to her side of the room. The prolonged silence makes your heart pace just a bit faster.

“That you’re a whore for dating three men.”

You feel as if you’ve stopped breathing, breaths short and shallow.

“What?”

“Others are quite wild, suggesting that you’ve casted spells so they’d date you,” she looks at you expectantly, almost playfully, “have you?”

“No, never.”

“Hm. Not sure why that’s difficult for me to believe. Anyways, goodnight.”

She climbed into her bed then, back turned towards yours. The weight of her words affected the both of you differently. It brought a smile onto her face knowing she made yours drop.

The day after you had noticed people looking at you, others looking in your direction. Now with knowledge of what others were saying about you, you felt self-conscious–walking with your mind tumbling into nowhere. Two hands appeared in front of you, holding onto your forearms.

“G’morning,” James smiled down at you so you attempted to smile back for him, “you practically ran into me, everything alright?”

“I’m alright, just didn't sleep well, sorry.”

It didn’t look like he fully believed you, but regardless he cooed and brought you in for a hug. In his mind he had hoped that it would help like it has before, but this time was different. The affectionate gesture caught the attention of nearby students. Seeing others glaring at the two of you brought you to pull out of his grasp. You’re sure there was a confused–and hurt–expression on his face, but you intentionally avoided looking.

It was like someone else was controlling your body. You didn’t want to hurt him or push him away, but while out in public you felt like your eyes glazed over. Your focus shifted from the guys to anyone else that came by. It did nothing but worry them. You noticed the way they shared looks at the dining table, but they brushed it off that night–trusting your word that you truly were just tired.

Back at your room for the night you found your roommate and a few of her friends residing on her bed. You smiled at them to be polite but it did nothing, the cold expressions on their faces unwavering.

“Where’re your boyfriends?”

“Back in their room, I can go get them if you–”

“Oh no need, we only wanted to talk to you. Can you come over here, please?”

Your roommate stated, emphasizing her words by patting the sheets. The moment you stepped towards them, you found yourself moving backwards instead. You stumble, quite awkwardly too. The back of your arm got the brunt of the fall, the edged surface of her desk collided with your arm hit at an angle that made you wince. The girls smiled, not caring at all that you had just injured yourself on their behalf. You were sure that the rug had been there below you, but after you looked you found the rug had moved into a whole different section of the room, like it had been pulled out from under you.

“Oops,” your roommate whispered, wand raised in the air still, “sorry. I’m just trying to prepare you for when the boys inevitably ‘pull the rug out from under you.’ And by that I mean they dump you.”

You blinked back tears and rushed out of the door. With your room occupied, you’re thankful for the one other place you can go–theirs. Even before you dated they’ve always welcomed you to stay with them wherever.

James had opened the door when you knocked, smiling wide.

“Who’s at the door,” you hear Sirius ask in the back. He opens the door wider so Sirius can see.

“Would it be okay if I stay here tonight?”

“Of course, you’re always welcome,” James says, moving to the side so you can slide through. He sends a look to the other two as you do. You settle on the edge of the bed, Remus sitting closest to you with a book on his lap. James settles back where he presumingly was, laid back in the ruffled sheets near Remus.

Usually when you come over you’re greeted with hugs, kisses placed all over your face. You miss the way you teased each other and discussed plans for the next day. Now it was silent, everyone’s focus set on you as you sat yourself on James’ bed.

“Are you okay, dove,” Remus asks, voice soft.

“Yeah.”

“Anything happen?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Sirius quips, the front legs of his chair coming down with his feet as he swings them off the table, “we can all tell something is bugging you, you keep looking off in the corner like there's a ghost in the room.”

“I’m fine, honest.”

“Like hell you’re fine.’”

Remus sends Sirius a look that has him throwing his arms up. James scoots forward on the bed to be beside you, resting his hand on your back to rub sweet circles. When his fingered press on your left side, right where you had collided into your roommate’s desk, you’re unable to help the way your body flinches away. From the corner of your eyes it looks as if James flitched in response to your jolt in pain.

The room was silent before, but now it's deathly quiet. The tension freezing in the air, stilling everyone in their spots. You hear Remus slide off the bed behind you to stand behind you.

“Can I lift your shirt?”

You nod, allowing him to slide the lift side of the sweater you had put on earlier to examine the spot that made you wince. The welt had only just begun to form, but it had enough color and swollen muscle to worry all three boys.

“Is this at all connected to why you’ve been distant lately?”

The tears from before that had built up, pooling in your eyes as you look into Remus’ eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you cry, “I didn't mean to hide anything from you.”

He shushes you, “don't apologize. Can you tell us how you got this?”

“I swear to Merlin if the cause of your injury involves someone else,” Sirius interjects, stopping when James runs a hand over his shoulders.

“Let’s let her explain first before we jump to conclusions,” Remus says, running his thumb over your hand, urging you to talk.

“The other night when you dropped me off, my roommate saw you kiss me goodnight. For whatever reason she wished to bring up the rumors others have been saying about us, specifically me before going to bed. And I don't know what came over me, I should not have pushed you all away over a few rumors,” you say, looking specifically at James, “and back at my room just now, I think my roommate pulled the rug out from under me like a cruel prank. She said that she wanted to prepare me for when you all will do the same.”

James’ hands hold firmer on Sirius’ shoulders after feeling him try to stand, “really James? You’re going to stand there while her roommate is in the room right now? It’s perfect fucking timing–”

“I know, but it’s best now that we stay with her. Look,” he urges Sirius to look, finding you weeping into your hands.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat for the umpteenth time, “I should’ve told you, I didn’t want to be a bother. I assumed you all have dealt with similar things.”

“We have,” James pipes in, still pushing Sirius down, “but we had each other. We’ve learned to tune them out.”

Sirius shoves James’ hands off, “I’m only coming to talk to her, calm down. Look, gorgeous, I’m sorry she said and did such nasty things. None of what she did was warranted. My only wish is that you brought it up to us, and communicated how you’ve been feeling. If you had come to tell us what she said right after she had, she never would’ve pulled what she did a few minutes ago I can promise you that.”

You smile, the sight infecting him and causing his lips to curve upwards.

“You’re right though, dove. Even if you did tell us, it doesn’t fully stop others from being arseholes–but it allows us to care for each other. You don’t have to go through that alone, alright? Promise you’ll talk to us next time?”

“Promise.”

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endless-ineffabilities · 1 day

Text

backhand stroke (18+)

tennis coach!Aemond x tennis player!reader

Rivals on and off the court, things come to a head between the two when Aemond crosses the line and sabotages the reader's relationship.

themes : challengers inspired, Art Donaldson is featured <3, a lot of cussing, smut!!! (minors dn fckin i), the reader and Aemond hate each other (but if they hate each other why are they fcking), reader may or may not be a cheating bastard, Aemond has a glass eye + he calls the reader ace

a/n : initially I was about to write a fic where Aemond and the reader are actual rivals themselves, but quickly remembered how tennis works 💀 so in this one, Aemond is a coach and reader is a player 🎾

word count : 8k ▪︎ masterlist

The Westeros Open is the biggest and most prestigious tennis tournament in the country.

Anyone who wants to be someone in the sport aims to qualify for it.

For you, it is everything. You have devoted your entire life to tennis. It started as something that stemmed from your parents' neglect. Rich folks who signed their young daughter up for extensive tennis lessons just so they can be free of her and galivant off to wherever.

You had sat there, staring at your shiny, brand-new white tennis shoes. Holding your unused top-of-the-line racket. Hair kept away from your face with a headband that still smelled like the store.

Mostly left alone by your family, you gathered your strength, and dragged your weak eight-year-old legs across the tennis court day in and day out.

Through the years, you found yourself. You found home, and you gave everything you had to make sure you would never lose it.

As luck would have it, you found romance along the way in Art Donaldson, who became your coach after your previous one decided to quit. He used to be a player, until he fell out of love with the game, and chose to coach up and coming players instead.

You had been wary of getting involved with him, but eventually you couldn’t resist. He turned out to be the perfect boyfriend - caring, sweet, attentive to your every need. He became your partner in both tennis and in life. Truly, you couldn’t want for anything else.

You shouldn’t.

So why does it feel like there is something missing?

And why is that void one that only Aemond Targaryen can fill?

The gigantic poster propped up in the inner courtyard of the country club lets everyone know that your next qualifying match in the Westeros Open is against none other than Helaena Targaryen.

Your image looms up to around twenty feet, with Helaena’s lithe figure on the other side. The perfectionist in you can’t help but scrutinise the details in your expression and your form. Was that really what you looked like mid-serve? You laugh dryly, feeling silly at your misdirected concern.

You like Helaena, and she’s always been cordial to you outside of your matches. The issue lies with her more brash and calculating brother and coach.

Something - or rather someone - shuffles behind you. Close enough that the hairs on the back of your neck stand on attention.

"I wish I could say that you look good up there, but we did once promise not to lie to each other.”

Think of the devil and he shall appear. You don't have to turn around to know who it is.

Aemond fucking Targaryen. Once at his prime, known for his freely expressing his passion and rage on the court, earning him the title 'the bad boy of tennis'. It was this drive, this relentlessness, that propelled his game. Unfortunately, it also served to be his downfall. After a few years as the sport's #1 male player, his career came to an end after an off-court altercation with an opponent that took his eye.

Now he is the coach of one of your top rivals and upcoming match opponent, his sister Helaena.

Which is why it should come as no surprise to you that he has made it his mission to get under your skin, with all his unwarranted flirty remarks, constant staring, and how he tirelessly interacts with everything you post on social media.

It used to be tame, by his standards anyway, with things like, ‘You need to work on that backhand’ or ‘I’m guessing Donaldson doesn’t train you well enough.’

But then the messages took a different turn. You once posted a picture of you in a fancy, revealing gown when you attended the annual gala, and he responded with, ‘It’s easy to see that all your training has paid off, ace.’

You chocked it all up to playful aggression. He’s just trying to get you to lower your guard, and distract you. You knew better than to look too much into the apparent interest he gives you.

He is notorious for being a playboy, after all. Dirty blonde hair perfectly tousled, designer tracksuits he wears with such snobbishness, a presence that can command an entire room. You’ve grown to heavily dislike the seemingly permanent smug sneer on his lips, and how he sometimes treats others like they’re nothing but gum stuck on the soles of his fancy tennis shoes.

A handsome rogue who possesses a lot of talent and who is aware of his status as a hot commodity can be dangerous indeed. If he can say that Helaena Targaryen’s best opponent is nothing but another notch on his bedpost, then he will never let that live down.

More importantly, you are already spoken for. Aemond knows this - not that he cares - but whatever he thinks about your relationship doesn’t matter.

“Aemond.” You don’t turn to face him, continuing to scrutinise the gigantic poster. “Is that the best you got?”

He shrugs, positioning himself right in your line of sight, clearly demanding more attention. “You don’t just look good. You look good enough to fucking eat, ace. Too bad about the shitty attitude.”

Hot then cold, nice then nasty. Aemond will never change. Rolling your eyes, you say, “I thought I told you not to call me that. Shouldn’t you be somewhere else training your sister? She’s gonna need it.”

He steps closer, invading your space. You look him directly in the eye like you’re squaring up with an opponent. This has always been your dynamic. Neither one backing down, neither one ever really dealing a blow.

Just constant dizzying electricity.

Sooner or later, it will all come to a head. Whether it will be your fault or his, the jury is still out on that.

“Oh, I’m sure she will,” he patronises, his deep blue almost violet eye sparkling. On the opposite was his glass eye, only adding to his intimidating nature. He hadn’t opted for one that resembled his real eye, but rather a hazy white apparatus, making him appear ghoulish, almost ghostlike. Nestled in his left eye socket, framed by a faded maroon gash, it made him look every bit like the charismatic rogue of tennis that he is known to be. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere receiving instruction from Donaldson? Not that you’ll get much out of it.”

“Art and I are on top of our training, not that it’s any of your damn business. You should concern yourself with your sister’s game.”

“If only that were actually true, ace, but unfortunately I believe that your sweet Art wastes too much of his fucking time being on top of you.”

“Fuck off, Targaryen,” you respond, trying to push the allure of his scent out of your mind. Pungent cologne and cigarette smoke, a blend that you’ve come to associate only with him. “Stay out of my business, and quit messaging me.”

“You like how we talk.”

“Trust me, I don’t.”

“Does Donaldson know?” Fully aware that Art has never had a liking for him, he knows that will hit a nerve.

Your face falls, like you’ve been caught in the act. Even though you've done nothing wrong. Occasionally caving in and responding to Aemond’s messages surely isn’t crossing the line. What started out as a couple of offhand fuck offs from your end turned into actually sharing private jokes about the other matches and training and - heavens forbid - small talk about the goddamn weather.

You’ve come to know that his favourite colour is green. Not the neon of a tennis ball, but a bluish-tinted pine.

Not that it matters.

Encounters such as this one also don’t mean anything. Never mind however much you find him attractive. Who wouldn’t? You have eyes, and you’re only human. Nothing more to it.

Never mind how, some nights, in what can only be construed as momentary states of delirium, you have imagined him in Art’s place.

Never mind just how much he gets under your skin, like no one else can, and how you can’t admit to yourself that you might actually like it.

Oh, you might actually be making yourself sick at all these thoughts.

“There’s nothing for him to know.” You step to the side, indicating that you want to walk away. But he has you cornered and you both know it.

He smirks, “Keep telling yourself that, ace. But you can’t deny - ” He steps close again. He suddenly tilts your face toward him with one hand, but you shake your head and his fingers lose their hold. “ - this. Us.”

Damn him. And damn the shiver that just ran up your spine.

You stand still, entranced by the look he’s giving you. Trick or not, Aemond sure does have a way of looking at you as if he sees you for who you really are. Not the tennis prodigy. Not the public personality. You remain a shell of that broken kid that poured everything she had into this sport, much like he had, only to come out the other end still not whole, still searching for something inexplicably out of reach. And he sees just that - just you.

You feel like Art holds you up on a pedestal, not seeing the flaws that make you who you are. But you’ve always been happy to play the perfect girlfriend.

Until Aemond.

But he’s too much. Too forward, too brash, too intoxicating. You can never know what he’s going to do next. You can’t like him. You have to be certain that you don’t.

But then again… love and hate have always been two sides of the same coin.

He whispers, clearly pleased with the effect he has on you, “Match point, ace.”

Match point. You could have him. He could have you. He makes it evident that the next move is all yours. “Don’t go out of bounds, Targaryen,” you warn him lowly.

“What if I want to?”

You have him. He has you.

And you… have Art.

Clearing your throat, and your head, you finally step back. His head snaps up to follow you, disappointment evident on his face.

“See you around, Targaryen.” You spin on your heel, walking away, immediately feeling lighter. Emptier, feeling like your body begs to drift closer to him, two equal magnets.

“Ace,” he calls to you, walking after you when you don’t turn around. “Wait a second,” he reappears right in front of you, effectively halting your stride.

You grumble hastily, “God, you really have a space issue, don’t you, Aemond?”

“Meet me in the courtyard gardens,” he says, a new intensity lacing his voice, “tonight. After dinner. Or whenever you can. Just - ”

“No.”

“Come on, ace.” His tone is insistent, with no trace of his usual bravado and cockiness. “I think… I need to tell you something.”

Part of you wants to cave in, and just agree to whatever it is that he’s proposing, but that nagging voice in the back of your mind is adamant that it would not be right. What would Art think? But what if Aemond truly just wants to tell you something?

“So tell me now.”

His jaw clenches hard, and you can’t help but admire the taut edges of his face. “No, I want to do this, just you and me. When we’ll be alone - ”

“Aemond - ” you start to shake your head, trying hard to come up with a refusal that he will actually register.

“Donaldson doesn’t need to know,” he almost pleads. “This is between you and me, ace. You just have to hear me out.”

You take a deep breath, unable to understand just what it is he means. “If it’s something I have to hide from my boyfriend, then it’s not gonna happen. You have to see just how messed up that is, Targaryen.”

Either he can’t hear you, or he just does not want to accept your response. “I’ll wait for you. Right around midnight then, ace? Should give you plenty of time to sneak out.”

Before you can say no, again, he hastily plants a kiss on your cheek. Your eyes flutter shut at the sensation, in surprise and perhaps pleasure at the softness of his lips, and when you open them once more, he is no longer flooding your space.

You spy him entering a set of glass doors, leaving you there stunned.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Aemond kicks at another pebble, the sound momentarily breaking the silence in the gardens.

He’d checked his watch just seconds before, the face of it spitting on what remains of his eagerness.

Twelve fucking fifteen.

Either you just got held up by your whiney rat-faced boyfriend, or you’re a no-show.

Aemond doesn’t know which one is worse. He did not know what he was expecting in the first place. Did he actually think that you would do as he says? You never were good at following orders, much less those from someone whom you likely view as something of a nuisance.

Is that really what you see him as? Isn’t there something more at play here?

Something that keeps Aemond up at night, when he can no longer deny that it is not because he dislikes you that you plague his thoughts, but because he admires you. He does admire you, he sees no shame in admitting that.

As a tennis player. As a competitor. Anyone who feigns ignorance at your insane potential would just be lying to themselves.

As a woman? A… partner? No. It has to be no, doesn’t it? You hate him, you make it clear now and again. You disagree with him, challenge his views, point out his flaws. Surely, he can’t be attracted to you in a way that commands his heart. You are beautiful, he doesn’t deny this, but so were the dozens of other girls he had run through.

Each time he watches you perform your signature backhand stroke, with that sensual growl escaping your lips and the lewd grace with which your body bends, Aemond feels his sanity slipping away.

You drive him crazy, but he can't be crazy about you.

The only reason he asked you to meet him, is because he wants to propose that he replace Art as your coach. Helaena has expressed that she wants to retire, and focus on some other creative pursuits. Something insignificant to Aemond, that he can’t remember what it was exactly. A pottery business? A fucking flower shop? He doesn’t care to know.

It’s perfect, he thinks, because your game is superior anyway. It’s what first got his attention, and now he can take part in your process. He can direct you, shape you. He can do so much better than Art Donaldson, and he’s sure you know this too.

Maybe then you might actually open up to him the way you opened up to Art. With your absence tonight, it dawns on him that he might actually have to resort to other measures. Did he seriously think he would be able to simply reason with you about this?

He sits for another half-hour on a bench nestled among the rose bushes. Surrounded by flowers of deep scarlet, a maroon he distinctly remembers as being your favourite colour. He fools himself into believing that he’s using the time to craft a plan for what’s to come, and not that he’s wasting it on the hope that you might emerge from the tall hedges, out of breath and eyes glinting eager to find him.

Well, you played your hand. Now he knows what he has to do.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

You wake up groggy the following morning, having tossed and turned the entire night, thinking about Aemond.

Had he been out there, waiting for you? Your mind came up with the different possibilities of what he has to say. Or if he had nothing to say at all, and it was all just another ruse.

You told yourself that you didn’t want to meet up with him, but you had an alibi prepared. One of your old tennis club mates agreed to cover for you and say that you were having drinks together, just in case Art ever checks up.

But as you were about to deliver the excuse, Art had said something about you and him not getting to spend as much quality time anymore. The past few weeks have been occupied with nothing but tennis, and though it’s a shared activity that you both value, he wanted to stay in for the night with you. He ordered room service, downloaded two films that were on your watchlist, and whispered sweet nothings in your ear until you eventually gave up on meeting Aemond.

It can wait, whatever it is.

Besides, isn’t this the right thing to do? Did you seriously consider having a midnight rendezvous with the guy who you claim to dislike the most? Someone who encourages you to keep secrets from your boyfriend? What good could possibly come out of that?

With a heaving sigh, you push all thoughts of last night from your mind. There are bigger things at hand. The biggest tennis tournament of the year, for one.

You make your way to the dining hall of your hotel. Art had woken up before you, pressing a loving kiss to your cheek and explaining how he had to discuss some matters with your physical team. He wore the skin of a tennis coach as perfectly as that of a boyfriend.

And here you are, regretting that you were unable to meet up with another man the previous night.

The art deco layout of the lobby extends into the spacious dining hall, the interior of the hotel filled with geometric patterns and rich jewel tones. You once bid Aemond guess what your favourite interior design was, and he got it in two tries, complete with a spiel of how it reflects your personality. Art, on the other hand, had been adamant that your favourite was minimalist. That was the first time you realised that his perspective of you was different from Aemond’s.

You hadn’t yet reconciled with who is more accurate, lest it shine a light on something deeper.

The hostess is cheerful and full of pep as she leads you to your table. You know it’s coming - she’ll ask you for a picture in just a moment, and you’re proven right when she reaches in her pocket and her phone materialises inch by inch. She seems shy to ask, ready to turn on her heel with a stiff smile if you refuse, so you do your best to be encouraging.

When the photo is taken and she finally lowers her phone, you spy someone out in the distance and you make it out to be none other than your boyfriend. Leaning by the outdoor terrace, appearing to be speaking to another person you can’t yet make out, their face obscured by the decorative shrubbery scattered across the area.

You walk to the side to get a better view of who it is. That tall figure, clad in a black tracksuit… a familiar head of blonde hair… and the unmistakable cut of his jawline. Realisation sets in. Art is speaking to Aemond.

Your stomach sinks, the thought of breakfast no longer enticing. Frozen in the middle of the dining hall, you begin to attract the attention of others.

Aemond turns his head, perfectly timed for his gaze to meet yours. Like something out of a grim movie, your anxiety spikes as his smug smirk materialises in slow motion.

If there ever were a match at hand between you two, that smirk makes it clear that he has won it.

Art follows his gaze, also meeting yours, but without any trace of satisfaction. He looks at you accusingly. You shake your head at him, but you already know.

This is not going to end well.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

“Is it true?”

You had wordlessly followed Art back to your hotel suite, the air around you thick with dread and anticipation.

“What did Aemond say?” You stand in front of him as he calmly sits by the window, as if you’re on the trial stand. You just might be.

“Guess,” Art spits mockingly. “Why don’t you tell me? You seem to know him quite well.” You bristle at his tone. He’s never spoken to you like this before.

“Whatever he told you, it’s not what it looks like, okay? You know Aemond. He likes to mess around with people, especially us.”

Art shakes his head in disbelief, “He even showed me some of your messages. Some of them you must have sent - what, at 3 or 4 in the fucking morning? When you’re lying next to me in bed? Not getting a lot of sleep apparently. It must be why you’re not on top of your game.”

He’s not playing fair, and you deserve this.

“There’s nothing going on between us,” you say through gritted teeth, making the statement sound as firm as possible, because it’s not just Art you’re attempting to convince. You want to believe it too.

“He’s said some things about me.”

“And I defended you.”

“Not well enough,” he shakes his head. “It sounded almost normal for you. Spewing bullshit to each other.”

“It’s just… it’s all just banter.” God, you sound so terrible. “Riling each other up to get into the mindset before matches.”

“All that… all that, I can kind of understand. It’s the other things. The intimate things that get on my nerves.”

“What - ” You can’t form the proper response to that.

“I missed talking to you, he once said. To which you replied that you do too.”

“That’s nothing.”

“You said that he inspired you.”

“That’s… that… he’s a great talent,” you stammer, as the statements he throws worsen. “He always has been. Even you can’t deny that.”

The argument goes on for an uncomfortable length of time, with Art reminding you of things that you and Aemond had apparently messaged each other, and you trying to play them off as insignificant.

Gradually, you convince Art that Aemond is just a thorn in your side. That Aemond was just overplaying the messages to get under his skin. That letting this break your relationship would be giving Aemond what he wants.

But everything he said - the messages he brought back to the surface, the encounters that were brought up - made you realise the depth of your involvement with Aemond.

You are fooling yourself, just as much as you are fooling Art.

He finally stands, heading towards the door. “I’ve spoken to our physical team. Meet us at the gym in 15.”

“Art.”

He halts, but he doesn’t turn to face you. You’re worried about what you’ll see in his face if he does.

“Are we okay?” you ask.

He turns to the side, and you catch a glimpse of the man you love, his once blithe demeanour reduced to a brief, forced smile. He nods once, and you sag in relief. When he is finally out the door, you collapse onto the bed and press your knuckles to your eyes.

You feel it all at once.

Anger. Frustration. That fear of inevitability coming to fruition. This was bound to happen and a part of you knew it was coming.

Aemond screwed you over, and it’s high time you put an end to everything.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

The gardens. Midnight.

The message had been sent. The last one you will ever send to Aemond Targaryen if things go as planned.

You have it rehearsed and perfected in your mind - how you will give him a piece of your mind, how you will tell him off and tell him to fuck off for good.

As long as you think of Art… As long as you don’t lose yourself, then…

“You’re lucky I’m not standing you up, Ace. Not like what you did to me.” The bastard has appeared directly behind you, as per his custom, so close you can feel his breath on the nape of your neck.

You immediately turn to face him, and he stands calmly in his signature black tracksuit, his lips curled in their usual manner. “I never agreed to meet you that night.”

His smile is derisive, the sight of it sharp and cruel under the moonlight. “I thought we had sort of a code of honour, you and I. That we’d never lie to each other. Never let the other person down.”

“Honour?” you say mockingly. “I call bullshit. Trying to ruin my relationship… is that part of it?”

He looks away, shaking his head at your accusation. “I only did what you don’t have the fucking guts to do. Your relationship with Donaldson was ruined the moment we…” He trails off, brows furrowing. His gaze meets yours, revealing the truth that sits underneath his mask of arrogance. One that only you are allowed to see. He appears to take on a different smile this time, softer and less pronounced. The curses you want to hurl get caught in your throat when he looks to your lips and hums faintly to himself, almost as if he’s forgotten that you are in the middle of an argument.

You take a step back, and it shakes him out of his reverie. It shakes the both of you out of it.

“Well? Let’s fucking hear it then.” You raise your arms in a gesture, egging him on.

“Hear what?” he says, having the gall to be confused.

“What did you want to tell me that night? Tell me now, because you’ll never get the chance again.”

He straightens, getting his thoughts in order. He completely forgot about that issue, and talking is increasingly becoming the last thing he wants to do right now. He wants to put his lips to better use. Something more worthwhile. “Helaena’s retiring,” he finally decides on saying, “and I think I should be your coach.”

You’re dumbfounded for a moment, his proposition whirring in your head. It makes sense, it does. He just gets you. But then again…

“That’s rich,” you reply. “Do you think I would ever give up Art? He’s always been my coach and he’s damn good at it.”

“You’re not compatible,” he counters, “in the court and out of it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He doesn’t see you,” he affirms. He would never lie to you, and he isn’t about to start now. He repeats, “He doesn’t see you, but I do.”

His words strike true, and it feels as if he’s just pulled the rug from underneath you, and you’re falling, falling…

Right into his arms. And the impact is jarring, because it’s real.

“We can’t.” It comes out as a hoarse whisper, a reflection of your weakening restraint.

“Yes we can, ace.” He takes a step closer, and he lifts his hand as if on instinct, reaching for your face. But he’s frozen, unsure of how far he can toe the line that already lies fragile between you. “It should be you and me.”

Your eyes follow his movements, because you know you want him to give in and hold you. To touch your face. To kiss you.

And it’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

“I have to go.” Your voice carries no emotion. You avert your gaze at the last second and catch the defeat that flashes across his face. It should come as a surprise that it pains you to see him like this, but then again, you see him as he sees you. You always have. Which renders your next words among the most painful to come out of your mouth. “We can’t do this anymore. Art already doesn’t trust me, and if this goes on, it’s only going to make things worse. I can’t talk to you - ”

“No.”

“- and I won’t be responding to anything- ”

“Stop fucking talking.” His anger is fledgling, rising to the surface. There is no way he will calmly accept these terms. “I said no, ace.”

“It’s… it’s the right thing to do,” you murmur, still unable to look at him. “I’m sure I’ll see you around. We run in the same circles. But we can’t be… us.”

“Forget it,” he seethes, trying to catch your eyes, and growling low when you don’t relent. “Forget him, ace. Or do whatever the fuck you want. But not this, I’m not having this.”

You exhale, having gotten the worst of it out of your chest. It’s over now. But it’s not a relief that you feel. It’s remorse.

“Goodbye, Aemond.” With that, you finally take him in once more, and one glance is enough to shatter your resolve. His heightened ill temper shines clearly across his distinguished features. Under the midnight moon, he resembles a fallen angel, long dark blonde lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones. His shadowy, glass eye strangely adding to the appeal.

Beautiful. And just not yours.

One last, lingering look - then you walk away. The silence is deafening, and you feel numb all over. Your knuckles are taut at your sides, fingernails digging in your palms to keep those pesky, errant tears at bay. You’ve suffered defeat before, but this is much worse, because it’s coming solely from your own hand. How easily you give him up, someone who was never yours, and how badly it stings.

“No,” you hear him say again, and you pray he shuts up so you can keep walking.

He doesn’t. He repeats the word - no - over and over like some mantra under his breath. One second you feel nothing. Nothing at all. But then the wind whooshes around you and you’re being spun around to face him.

And then, his lips claim yours, and you feel everything.

Sounds come rushing back to you. His ragged panting against your lips, the pads of his fingertips kneading the back of your head, the wet smacking of his mouth on your own. The empty pit in your stomach is filled with those clichéd butterflies. More so when one of his hands travels down to grasp your waist and press your body against his.

“Aem - ” Your mind catches up to you, and you try to say his name to get him to pause, but he slides his tongue past your teeth.

“Shut up and kiss me, ace.” He breaks free for but a second, then hungrily kisses you again. You let him. You give in completely.

“Mmm, Aemond.” Your hands reach up to cradle his face and he takes that as an opportunity to pull back and openly admire you.

“You’re my ace,” he professes, connecting his forehead to yours. “And I’m not fucking losing you.”

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

You rush through the lobby of the hotel, hand in hand and giggling like schoolchildren as you duck your heads so as not to get recognised by the night concierge.

With reckless abandon, your entwined bodies stumble into his suite, which just happens to be on the floor below yours. You once thought you would have to be inebriated beyond belief to surrender to a sin like this, and in a way you are. You’re high off of him - Aemond in his entirety, six feet of lean muscle, notorious foul-mouthed one-eyed libertine.

“Fuck, ace.” He has his arms wrapped around you from behind, and he nips at your exposed neck. His touch roams and finds the mounds of your breasts, kneading mindlessly over your shirt. The sound that reverberates from his throat is carnal, and you feel it echo through your whole body. It drives you to press your ass against him, taking full notice of his hardness straining from his sweatpants.

Feeling mischievous, you do it again, gripping his arms to anchor yourself while grinding against his cock.

“Foul play,” he whispers against your neck, “you fucking minx.”

“There are no rules now.” You face him, running a finger along his jawline as you walk backward and he follows suit. Stopping at the edge of his bed, you strip out of your shirt, careful to keep your eyes locked on his the whole time.

The movement is too slow for Aemond, and he desperately needs more. He pushes you onto the mattress and climbs on top of you. He slides your sweatpants off your legs, then lets his hand drag from your ankle to your inner thigh. He promptly undresses, graceless and in a rush, until all his clothes are left in a heap on the carpet.

His cock stands on attention, taut and goddamn long. You feel an ache below that compels you to rub your legs together, but he beats you to it and slides your underwear right off. “I’ve always wanted to taste you,” he croons. “Bet you taste so sweet.”

You take your bra off and you’re finally left completely bare. He spreads your legs and positions himself in between. He uses one hand to squeeze your breast and the other to keep your legs propped wide open.

His eye meets yours, before he settles in, lowering his head until he’s breathing cool air onto your pussy. “Match point, ace.”

You have him. He has you.

When Aemond’s tongue plunges deep into your throbbing core, swirling inside like he wants to consume you whole, you have to bite your tongue to hold back a scream.

He knows what he’s doing, of course he does, and he’s so fucking good.

“Yes - yes - keep going, baby, fuck - ” you moan, words breathy and irregular.

He sticks two fingers into your wetness, using it to spread you wider, leveraging his tongue ever deeper. In and out they go, faster than the fuck, fuck, fucks coming out of your mouth in blissful sputters.

He suddenly stops, a guttural hmm echoing from his lips, and you look down to see his lips coated in a mixture of his spit and your pre cum. “Not so fast, ace,” he taunts. “You’ll come when I say.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, still widespread and exposed to him. “What, are you coaching me through it?”

He hums in affirmative and leans in to kiss you, juices still dripping from his chin.

“You gonna follow my orders, ace?” he asks, and your mind spirals at how utterly lewd it sounds.

“Wouldn’t you like that, Targaryen?” You let out another moan, biting your lip when he hungrily sucks on your breast. “Let’s see what you got first.”

He smiles at your playful instigation. It’s always come natural, this riffing back and forth. But this midnight dalliance - he wants it to be honest. He needs you to realise how much he wants you.

“Yes, ma’am.” He gets on his knees, a hand braced on each of your thighs, his hardened cock at the ready.

“Ma’am?” you breathe, a laugh dying in your throat when you his tip prods at your entrance.

“I can be agreeable under the right circumstances, ace.” He torments you by pushing his cock in but an inch.

“Fuck me, Aemond,” you cuss in frustration, then, literally, “Fuck me. Please.”

His eyes take you in, one darkened blue and one ghostly pale glass. “Well, since you asked so nicely,” he says. “You good for it, ace?” He nods once, referring to whether a condom is needed and you take the hint right away.

“Yeah,” you confirm. “Perks of having a top-of-the-line physio team. They hook you up on other things too.” Your cocky-athlete way of stating that you are on the pill.

The lights are dim in the room, but you clearly see the resolve settle on Aemond’s face. He parts his lips like he wants to say something more, and you tilt your head questioningly.

He feels the need to make some sort of declaration. Something true. It doesn’t seem right to say those damned three words at this moment, no matter how much he means them. You could think he’s trying to trick you in order to get what he wants. A good lay and nothing else. So he doesn’t say anything and lets the silence speak for itself. If you know him as you claim to, then you’ll see.

You’ll see just how much this means to him.

You nod, and it’s an unspoken plea.

He thrusts his cock into you with such force, stretching your walls with a sudden and blinding ache, until he is buried to the hilt. He reaches and cradles your face with one hand, the other keeping your ankle propped by his shoulder.

“Move, Aem.” You buck your hips against him, his cock squelching in and out again.

“Yeah, baby?” He complies with his hips in response. “That feel good?”

“Yes. God yes.”

A switch flicks inside of him, and he almost snarls through his teeth. “You feel so fucking good, ace. Your pussy takin’ me so well…” His hips buck faster, in abrupt snapping motions, burying his cock each damn time. He connects your legs together and turns you to your side, altering the position slightly.

You look behind your shoulder and see that feral look etched on his face. His grip is tight on the flesh of your hips and the curve of your ass, having it raised slightly for his convenience. He smacks your behind with an open palm, and it elicits a lusty moan out of you.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasps. “So beautiful like this, dripping around my fucking cock, huh? My good girl.”

The noises you release as a result are unintelligible. You press your face against the pillow in sheer pleasure, muffling your sounds.

“I wanna hear you, baby,” Aemond protests. With practised ease, he repositions you so your ass is propped high before him, your body bent forward as you have to lean on your forearms to keep from planting your face on the sheets.

He doesn’t ease up on his relentless thrusting, and you’re left squirming and cock-drunk. Your eyes rolling to the back of your head, you’re blissed-out on what only Aemond can give you.

“Does he fuck you as good?” he spits in obvious distaste. “I don’t think so, baby. Can’t fuck this pussy like I do.”

“N-no,” you whimper, without any trace of guilt. “Only you, Aem.”

“Hmm,” he simpers. “Come for me, ace. Be a good girl now. Come around my cock, yeah?”

“Mhhmm,” you pant, growing weaker and weaker at his statements, your walls tensing for that release you crave.

“You’re mine, ace. Mine.”

Your whimper comes out sudden and unrestrained as you let go, and feel your warm juices leaking down your thighs. The sounds of his cock growing noisy and sloppier. He releases not long after, with a few sharp spasms, decorating your insides with his cum.

Marking someone who is not supposed to be his.

But nothing else matters as he crumples against you and pulls you into his arms. If something is to be reconciled with, it won’t be for tonight.

With these things, regret always comes along with the sunrise.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

“40 - 30.”

The crowd cheers at the umpire’s announcement. You can barely make out the faces morphing together into one homogeneous mob, but you’ve observed enough to know that Aemond isn’t among them. Rivulets of sweat drip down your face and you walk to the side as another break starts.

Helaena nods at you from the opposite side of the court, and you respond with a terse smile.

She resembles him so much - the one you’ve been avoiding for the past three days. With that same distinct shade of blonde hair and deep blue eyes, but possessing an aura of tenderness about her. If Aemond wasn’t lying about her plan to retire, then it makes perfect sense. She seems too good for the sport, too pure, whereas you fit right into its cruel constraints.

What sort of person would have done what you did, some nights ago, and be able to walk with their head held high? You want to believe that you regret sleeping with Aemond, that you would reverse your actions, given the chance. But the pain that eats at you is that you might have fucked things up for good, abruptly leaving before he woke up that morning.

It’s ironic - you may just get what you said you wanted. To end things. Never to be the same with him again.

You slump in your seat, wiping at your face with a towel, pushing all thought of Aemond from your mind.

From your periphery, you catch Helaena gesturing to you. She smiles, and you think that your emotions must show so clearly on your face that she feels bad for you.

She nods, and tilts her head to the side, so that you follow her gaze. Standing courtside, partially hidden in the corner just behind the barriers, you see Aemond closely watching you.

He came after all. You turn back to Helaena, unable to hide your surprise, and she sends another smile your way. She knows. Of course she does.

With renewed excitement, the match continues. It only takes one more point, one final ace, and you emerge triumphant. The court fills with cheers and sounds of celebration. It is declared that you are advancing to the next round of the tournament. You meet Helaena in the middle and she firmly shakes your hand, exhibiting no sign of disappointment.

“Congratulations! Very well played.” She drops her racket and grasps your hand with both of hers. She leans closer, and adds, “You know, I also consider it a win for myself, because my last ever match is against the girl my brother is in love with.”

You forget where you are, the revelation rendering everything else moot. The cheering crowds disappear, and it’s just you and Helaena as she dips her head comfortingly, assuring you that you heard her words true.

“I’m sure I’ll see you soon,” she lets go finally, with a cheerful, “go celebrate!”

You feel yourself being whisked away, cameras flashing from all sides. Art appears in front of you and he pulls you into an embrace. Several onlookers gush at the sight. You barely take notice of them, your eyes already drifting to where Aemond was standing.

There he remains, casually leaning against the barriers. Some audience members realise that the great Aemond Targaryen stands among them, and one by one a small crowd forms around him, asking for pictures and autographs.

He continues to hold your gaze, his usual smirk making an appearance, ignoring a guy waving a camera at his face. You shake your head at the scene, a genuine laugh bubbling from your lips.

You nod to each other, as if acknowledging the absurdity of it all, and leave it at that. There’s a lot more to be said, for another time. Art wraps his arm around your waist, and Aemond takes it as his cue to look away, relenting to the eager fans surrounding him.

You direct your gaze to your boyfriend, immediately seeing the recognition in Art’s eyes. He’s seen everything.

He doesn’t need to be as acutely perceptive as Helaena to realise the truth. That of the one-eyed rogue and his ace. You’ve been drifting from him for so long, that it was only a matter of time.

He was your friend first, and he always will be. You’ve watched each other grow, through endless mistakes and challenges, and there’s a fire in you he cannot match.

But Aemond can. He knows this now.

He extends a hand out to you, one which you accept with poorly masked caution. He understands how woeful it must be, to tear yourself apart from being in love with someone else. The shame and uncertainty that must entail.

For both your sakes, he decides that he has to be the bigger person and do the right thing.

“What do you say?” Art offers to you. “Post match treat?” he asks, referring to your tradition of sharing a large strawberry sundae after games.

“Okay.” Your smile is sweet and unguarded, and it reminds him of when you first met, nearly six years ago. That day, he knew he had made a lifelong friend.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

“I wish I could say I’m happy to see you here, but we did once promise not to lie to each other.”

Aemond swivels toward the sound of your voice, cigarette smoke billowing from his lips.

“Vile habit, Targaryen.” You wrinkle your nose, and he just shakes his head and crushes the butt of his cigarette under his shoe.

“Yeah, well.” He merely shrugs. He was dead set on quitting, but something came up the past couple of days, causing his anxiety to reach new heights. When you ignored him after the night you shared, he can’t fault himself for reaching for depraved solace in nicotine. But no substance would ever be enough to erase the precious memory of watching you come undone.

“Not happy to see me, ace?” he refers back to your greeting, not bothering to hide the hurt he feels.

You walk closer to him, trying to hold back a smile. “Well, I lied. But it’s not like I haven’t lied before.” You stop when you’re right in front of him, the remnants of his smoke making you feel woozy. “I also lied when I said that we can’t keep being us anymore. When I said goodbye.”

“Hmm,” his lips curl at your confession. “Judging by how wildly you fucked me after you said that, I could already tell.”

You roll your eyes, but you already feel so much better, like things are falling right back into place. All it took was some teasing from the apparently callous, sharp-tongued, ambitious-to-a-fault boy standing before you.

A boy who revealed the true depths of his compassion only to you. He let you thaw out his cold heart from its confines and declared it yours.

“Something more to say, ace?” he asks.

“You first.”

“Are you kidding? Why don’t you play this game with your boyfriend?”

You share a lingering look, effectively answering his question. The unabashed shit-eating smile that breaks out on his face is enough to tell you just how he feels.

“Don’t gloat,” you warn him, but he’s already pulled you flush against him with both arms. “I also need a new coach.”

“Mhmm,” he nods, not really in response to your statement. “Save that for later, ace. Please shut the hell up and kiss me.”

He can’t help but smile through kisses, his lips chasing yours when you make an effort to pull away and say something more.

“Aemond, will you - ”

“Fuckin’ - ” a cuss slips from him when you manage to break apart, depriving him of your lips. He answers impatiently, “Yes of course, I’ll be your coach, ace. Of course. Happy? I’ll be anything you want me to be.”

Before he leans in once more, you say, “Don’t you dare fuck this up, Targaryen.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, my love.”

You lean back in mild surprise.

He laughs, “I mean - ace - or my love. Either one applies, really.”

"I... I prefer ace," you say weakly.

"Now, now, my love. I thought we promised not to lie to each other?"

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#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen oneshot #house of the dragon #hotd #aemond targaryen au #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell x reader

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rayveneyed · 2 days

Text

cw: smut / cisfem!reader / scent kink

something nobody ever considers about satoru gojo is that he’s very particular about scents.

it’s a weird side effect of the six eyes that is rarely ever spoken of, by him or any other; along with his fantastical sight, his ability to distinguish minute details kilometres away, to read the ever-twisting flow of cursed energy, yadda yadda yadda — the extrasensory perception he was granted the second two gametes fused into a zygote had skyrocketed every perceptible sensation above the level of the average human. leagues above the level of not-so-average humans, too, but that’s a story for another time.

beneath the slightly dusty smell of skin cells and flesh, each person is different. diet and exercise play a huge part, of course, but then there’s the more obvious things — perfume, toiletries, surroundings. nanami always smells like paper and sandalwood. nobara, sweet and fruity, with a sneaky undertone of something synthetic — something almost hospital-like. yuji smells like grass and citruses, like he’s just popped open a can of something fizzy and caffeinated on the lawns of jujutsu tech. but if he had to choose a favourite…

“could — could you, um—”

one really must forge their own little bits of happiness in this line of work. the constant death and despair really puts a damper on one's lust for life. for gojo — sweets, cute little figures, themed cafes and expensive cakes, things that pleasantly appeal to and delight each one of his six senses. you, in a similar way, enjoy the finer things in life — cashmere and vicuña wool, luxury furniture for your top-floor apartment, century-old wines with names you cannot pronounce — and, to gojo's delight, perfumes.

oh, you have one for every day of the year, he's sure. white florals bursting with zesty citrus, bergamot and black tea when the weather cools. there's fluffy vanillas and sugar-sweet marshmallows, tempered with the smooth depth of sandalwood. osmanthus seeping with syrupy apricots and and peaches. cloves and nutmeg and cypress for the days when the clouds split open and tokyo turns grey.

with your back pressed against the couch and gojo flush against you, hips slotted between your pillowy thighs, he's able to dig his nose right into the curve of where your jaw meets your neck, exactly where you spritz your perfume every morning. today, it's one of those delicious, good-enough-to-eat type of smells; white chocolate and macadamia nut and — fuck, he almost moans against you. sugar and spice and everything nice — you smell like everything he's ever wanted to gorge himself on. he's reminded of the cheap, strawberry body spray you used to use back in high school — how the scent would catch on his nose when you walked past, how it lingered on his jacket when you brushed against him. he shivers.

he lifts his lips from your skin — lifts his nose from the cradle of your neck to give you a distracted, slightly disgruntled, "huh? what?"

it's only without the smell of you clouding his nose that he suddenly realises that you're squirming against him — the heat of your clothed pussy pressing against his hardened cock, layers of cotton and denim and linen between you both leaving you with only the slightest, most irksome hint of pleasure. even with his blindfold fastened over his eyes, it's all so much.

"just — i need something," you say, exasperated. your forehead's dewy with sweat, glasses slipping down the bridge of your pretty nose. "you've been at this for ages."

"ah, my bad." but he doesn't stop. how can he tear himself from your warmth, the heat of you radiating from your skin, your arms wound around his neck and fingers in his hair? how can he leave even a single inch of space between you, when your chest is heaving with excitement and the musky sweetness of your arousal is reaching his nose? he satisfies both your needs for stimulation with slow, curling rolls of his hips, dull pleasure tingling up his spine and leaving him shuddering. "i thought you were more patient."

"you — you're the one that dragged me in here," you say, even as your breathing gets heavier, even as your head falls back with a whine, baring the column of your neck to his greedy, seeking nose. "i told you i have plans, so unless you—!"

"alright, alright," he concedes, though all of your arguments about the time have been half-hearted at best. "don't you worry, i'll take good care of you — real good care."

"you sound like such a sleaze when you say stuff like that."

"mhm." for a moment, he lifts his head — and he doesn't have to look at his reflection mirrored in your eyes to know that his pupils are blown wide, his cheeks flushed pink. you're not much better off — for all your whining and posturing, your proverbial claws aren't much more dangerous than those of a scrappy little kitten. beneath it all, your breathing is laboured, your blood vessels dilated. you smell sweeter, like your body is a ripening fruit or blooming flower, opening for him. your blood rushing to the surface of your skin, heating up the fragrance oils still dotted along your flesh, turns it all heady and head-dizzying.

you want him — you can deny it all you want, but he can see it clear as day. the reminder sends what little blood remains in his head straight to his cock.

"you smell sweet," satoru says, blank and dumb. "when you're horny."

for a moment, you pause. embarrassment — and arousal, though you probably won't admit it — has you locking up. a hint of bitterness turns your fragrance — like burning chocolate — before you huff suddenly, smacking at him until he begins to back up. "oh, my god — you're so shameless, satoru—"

"no, i'm serious! h—hey, stop!" he argues, wriggling until he's back in your good graces again. he dips his head to your skin again, teasing you with little nips along your neck. you'll see the bruises it leaves tomorrow and demand he make it up to you with sweets that he'll just have to eat with you, earrings that glimmer in garnet. for now, though, he’ll get a little serious.

"you get a little sweeter when you cum too, y'know," satoru coos. he tugs at his blindfold, blinking as unfettered light filters into his retina. it's sensory overload, overstimulating and overwhelming, but it's exactly what he wants: to see you, feel you, taste you, smell you — be engulfed by you in every way he can. as if drawn there, his hand sneaks between the tight fit of your bodies, slipping under the hiked-up hem of your skirt and petting at your underwear — soaked, as he’d expected, coating the tips of his fingers. "like syrup. i wanna smell you like that.”

his tongue peeks out over your pulse point, touch reaching up and up and up to that fantastic little ball of nerves he adores. you let out a moan so loud that even he’s taken aback. giddiness bubbles in the pit of his stomach — giddiness, horniness, it’s all the same to him — and he shoves his nose so hard into your skin he swears it’ll bruise. ah, there it is. he’s barely even touched you, too. it’ll be even better when he does.

“g—god, you’re horrible,” you say, arching into him, like you can’t bear to be apart for even a second.

“me?” satoru laughs. you’re distracting from the task at hand, though he usually doesn’t mind. he can’t help but respond, giving you your own attitude back a thousandfold. it’s just now, when it’s been so long since he’s gotten his fill of you, he’s just… a little impatient... “oi, don’t get all embarrassed — you always get so mean.”

“then stop saying things like that, and i won’t have to be — a—ah!”

satoru suckles at the cold-hardened flesh he’s just taken in his mouth — your mouth falling open in wonder and your chest heaving as he takes your nipple between two dull rows of teeth, humming. between his fingers and his mouth, you’ll soon be rendered almost completely silent, shuddering and twitching in what he knows will be a strong, satisfying orgasm — sweet with sweat, salt and musk gathering between your legs. looking up at him with glassy eyes and calling his name. his mouth waters.

he better get a move on, though: you have plans, after all.

#been reading too much sweat and soap i fear #and i love fragrances #so im making it everyone else problem >:)#is this a taggable fetish. should i tag this #anyways hes just like a littke freak i love him #u show him an ounce of love and his dick is diamond hard. pls get a grip #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x reader #satoru x reader #gojo smut #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk x you #anime x you #anime smut #anime x reader #gojo x you #ah girl help i keep adding pointless banter to my fics girl help #not proofread and im multiple hours past my bedtime. honk shoo

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mjr-acourtofdreams · 2 days

Text

Didn't Love Me. I Ain't No Fool.

Azriel x Y/N

warnings: angst...? I don't know if there is anything else?

summary: you meet Feyre at the paint studio you two clicked right away and became good friends, soon enough you got to meet the rest of the IC and started forming friendships with them. Azriel and you had a spark at the beginning or at least you thought you did... you two started seeing each other shortly after, keeping each other company in the deep hours of the night and telling each other the darkest parts of each other, he said he loved you but oh how things couldn't have been anymore different...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Winter Solstice a time where we gather with our family and friends to exchange gifts, drink and visit with each other it is a wonderful time of the year, it has always been my favorite time of the year... been.

Everyone has made their way back to their rooms for the night dinner went well lots of laughs and stories told I am not exactly part of the inner circle but after becoming great friends with Feyre she invited me to a family dinner one time and the rest is history these people are like my family now. I picked up my glass and took the last sallow I was the last one in the living room making my way back to my room I changed into some comfortable night clothes and was about ready to rest for the night when I remembered I forgot some gifts that I didn't put under the tree.

Making down the hallway with the arm full of gifts I stopped dead in my tracks has I heard hush talking coming from bottom of the stairs slowly making my way the top of the stairs I peeked down staircase my whole body teased, there standing was Azriel and Elain. They were so close oh so close to each bout ready to kiss, I can smell the arousal from here it was too much I took a step back feeling a hard body behind me glancing form the corner of my eye I seen Rhys then I felt him trying to get past my mental shields I drop them "go to you room y/n." I gave him a small nod and sped walked to my room and locked the door behind me.

I shouldn't be upset about what had happened I have seen the way he looked at Elain and how he started to get closer to her and seeing me less and less. We were never really an official thing I mean we talked a lot and we slept together, and I would be crazy not to say it wasn't the best sex I had in a while but with all of the bonding that we had and a strong friendship even if was with benefits I would be lying if I said I didn't form feelings for the shadow singer. The deal was sold one night after he snuck into my room after a mission, and we spent the night together we didn't just have sex we made love and after we cuddle close to each other before he drifted off to sleep, he told me he loved me I believed him. What a fool I was to let him break those walls of mine to let me fall for him, I know better now.

I stood in front of the mirror looking at the work I put into this outfit a smiling being bought on my face. I wore a black gown that had sparkles all the way through it that looked like starlight, with slits coming up both legs and stopping at my hips, the back was open while the straps gently wrapped around my neck with a soft chain then it drops down to a plugging neck line, my eyes were done with a smokey look and my hair was pinned off to one side and my natural waves danced across my back. Tonight, everyone is going out to Rita's it seems like it's been forever since I see them all together it will be nice to catch up with them all and with the news a heard from Feyre a couple weeks ago, she told me that Azriel and Elaine made it official to everyone. Since that night I caught them in the hall I decided to completely stop going over there and seeing them other than Feyre but that is going to change because I miss the friendships, I formed those amazing people and it look those weeks or months to build myself back up from the heart break if that was even worth calling what Azriel and I had it was just one siding but now since back to a better self and not going to go crawling back to a man that clearing never really truly wanted me, he is going to truly see what he is missing.

Short time passed and stood in front of the packed bar the music and laughter poured out to the empty streets taking a deep breath I made my way to the door. It didn't take me long to spot the whole inner circle in the booth they always sit at while here, looking them all over before I make my way to them, I seen Aziel and Elaine sitting to close together there wasn't room to even breath through and he had his arm flung around her shoulders she was resting her head in his side while he smiled down at her fondly I let a small hurt smile flash across my face and shake my head realizing right there that didn't love me and never did.

Azriel POV

Smiling down at Elaine while she leaned into my side I glance back up to where Cassin was going on about the building he destroyed in summer when my eyes landed on and focused on the figure that was making their way over to our table blinking and swallowing hard, I realized that it was y/n straighten up and slide my arm from Elaines side and sit up and looked me with questionable face but I couldn't take my eyes off of y/n as she comes to the table she looked absolutely divine, I haven't seen or heard from her since solstice and I haven't been able to seek her out busy with missions and well Elaine, oh Elaine glancing over to her on my side she was now talking to Mor on the other side of her.

"Hello everyone!" the sweet voice that was sweet has honey now sounds like it has been hardened. Feyre jumped up and pulled y/n into a hug. "I'm so glad you came!" Feyre's smiled beamed at her friend y/n's smile matched hers but there was less sparkle in those beautiful eyes, she slid into the booth right across from me I couldn't take my eyes off of her something felt like it was pulling me towards her even my shadows wanted to leave their master to go to her sides. I cleared my throat it all of a sudden feel dry, to dry. "Hello" she picked up her drink and slowly took a drink and looking down into the glass "How are you?" I tried again to get her attention one of my shadow flew over the tabletop and wrapped around her wrist she glanced up them looking straight into my eyes it felt like she was looking into my soul cutting right through me. "Hello, shadowsinger." there was ice in her voice I felt my body flinch at the coldness in it, this wasn't right I shake my head and looked her back in the eyes "what is going on with you, haven't seen you in weeks, months and you are so cold." I paused and looked her watching her face for any changes she let out a small low chuckle that sounded more like a huff like she hasn't laugh forever then she looked at me the hurt in her eyes were too much to bare to look at then she spoke with no emotion in her voice at all "well, that what happens when love lets you down." she stood from her spot and walked away through the crowded and I felt it then something shattered into a million pieces and I couldn't stop the tears from falling.

#acotar #acotar fanfic #azriel acotar #azriel acotar x reader #azriel angst #azriel shadowsinger #azriel spymaster #azriel x reader #azriel #azriel x reader angst #sarah j maas #sjmaas #azriel fanfic #acotar fanfiction #fanfic #azriel x y/n #azriel x you

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 days

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End Game 8

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, stalking, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your gaming buddy asks to meet up but it doesn’t go exactly as planned.

Characters: Andy Barber

Note: have a great friday, dudes.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Maris Street. You rarely go that way. It’s near the core of the town, closer to the west end where green hedges and white picket fences cordon off the suburban elite from the commoners like you. It suits him, doesn’t it? You assume this is what he’s used to.

The venom roils in your gut as you approach Oxford Drive. You stop before the sleek grey exterior. The black trims and large golden moniker in all caps add to the extravagant effect. Flowers boxes stand outside the windows that glow amber with rich ambience from within. The nicest place you ever went was the Korean Barbecue your dorm mate dragged you to; this is well beyond that.

You take a breath and look down at yourself. You’re still wearing the black jeans and plain tee you sport for your job. Former job. Your beat-up sneakers perfectly match your thrifted aesthetic and the purse strap twisted around your hand and wrist frays as if to assure everyone that you don’t belong.

You go to the front door and pull it open. You step inside to the low drone of stringy music and the subtle clink of glasses amid the low murmur of voices. You chew your lip as you approach the tall round desk where the hostess stands over the open reservation book, like some mystical keeper of scrolls. How very Skyrim of her.

She gives you a look, one you expect. You sniff and cross your arms, the strap of your purse further straining your circulation. You exhale and peek over at the dining room.

“Hi, I um...” your cheeks pinch as you find it difficult to speak. “I’m meeting someone.”

“You are?" Her skepticism drips from her voice, “are you certain they’re... here?”

“Yeah. I don’t know if he made a reservation or whatever. Obviously, I’m not a regular,” you snipe back. You’re too exasperated to hold back. You don’t need her judging you too. “Older, beard, uh, tall... Andy Barber. Is he in the book?”

She flutters her pretty lashes and looks down. You watch her. She’s a few years older than you. Tall, balayaged hair, slender, perfectly bowed lips. What about her? Or someone like her? Why wouldn’t he want that instead? Why is he bothering you?

“Barber,” she nods, “yes, he’s here.”

She seems surprised by that. She steps out from behind the desk and tells you to follow. You obey. You have to. This is all just pulling teeth. He has you toothless already.

You keep your head down as you trail behind her. You only look up as you sense a figure on the other side of her. Andy stands as you approach and you nearly choke. You want so bad to just turn around and run away.

A line deepens in his forehead and disappears. He smiles as the hostess waves you forward. He comes around to pull out the other chair before you can. You retract your arm and barely withhold your frustration. Can’t he understand you want nothing from him?

You sit stiff and fix your bag in your lap, slowly unwinding the strap from your wrist. The hostess promises a server will be with you soon and struts away. You stare at the table cloth and as Andy sits, darkening the edge of your vision, you turn to glare at the far wall.

You feel even more demeaned sitting there in your jeans in tea among the crystal and tall-stemmed lilies. The tinkle of the soft woodwind music makes your head buzz yet the smell of the food teases your empty stomach. Your eyes drift to a group of older women, laughing over wine, a symbol of what you’ll never be. Happy. Free.

“Thanks for meeting me. I guess you’ve never been here before,” Andy begins.

You shake your head and flick your eyes to the ceiling. You grit down on his words. Why is he acting like this is normal?

“Nice place, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you snap and look at him directly, nearly growling in his face, “very nice. Upscale. Well above me.”

You cross your arms and sit back, your purse strap still loosely clinging to your wrist. His chest rises and he exhales through his nose. He leans forward and his cheek ticks.

“I brought you here for dinner, so we could talk, get to know each other--”

“That’s not what I’m here for,” you insist, almost teary-eyed from your rage. You don’t like being angry. You’ve never been very good at and more times, you end up blubbering. “Kara, my friend--”

He tilts his chin up and sets his gaze firmly on you, “we’ll get to that.”

“No, now,” you hiss.

He huffs through his nose. He looks around, silently chewing his agitation. He sits up and replaces that manufactured smile as a server approaches.

“Good evening, can I get you started with drinks?” He asks, his dark shirt finely pressed and buttoned to the very top.

“No thank--” you begin.

“We’ll take a bottle of cabernet,” Andy interjects, “for the table. Oh, and could we get some fresh bread. This has been sitting out.”

The server acquiesces and takes the basket as Andy hands over the wine menu. You barely keep from rolling your eyes. You’re not here to eat and drink and be merry. Kara is quite possibly behind bars.

You glare at him and wait. The server leaves as you keep your arms folded, fingers clamped tightly. He looks at you as if there’s nothing wrong. As if this is all normal.

“I want to know what’s going to happen to Kara. You said you can help--”

“I can,” he says casually, “so let’s have a nice dinner and then I’ll do just that.”

“But she’s--”

“They’ll have her in holding, question her, then they’ll have to figure out charges, yada, yada,” he explains, “don’t worry, I’ll give them a call after, tell them my client is invoking her right to an attorney.”

Your chest thumps and your ears ring. He’s so confident. He already knows you can’t say no. Not to him or this dinner. You have to sit there and celebrate his victory that came with your defeat. It’s not right. It’s... it’s... deranged.

“Why?” You croak.

“Why?” He shakes his head.

“Why are you doing this? Why me? Why not someone... someone you can relate to? Someone your age?”

“Why you? You’re perfect, sweetheart. Perfect for me,” he coos, “come on, we get along. We did. I know I messed things up but it can’t change that we had fun. We did, didn’t we?”

You swallow and shrug. Those nights you stayed up and mined or raced or whatever, they were fun, they were nights you look forward to. But every single one was a lie.

“Sure, but... what if I’d lied to you? What if I wasn’t me? What if I was some guy in a basement--”

“You weren’t.”

“But what if--”

“I know you weren’t.”

“How could you know--”

“I just did. You’re so genuine, so... kind, that can’t be fake,” he insists.

You sink down, slumping your shoulders, and look away. What can you do? You’re exactly where you never wanted to be. With less options. With none.

“What do you want from me?” Your dry mouth crackles around your words.

He’s quiet as the server returns. He sits back and you lift your chin as you watch the server uncork the bottle. He pours the wine and Andy asks for a few more minutes with the menu. Again, you have no appetite.

When you’re alone again, Andy takes a breath and shifts in his chair. He brings his hands together, pinching his left ring finger as if he’s missing something. He quickly pulls his hands apart.

“You. That’s all I want,” he breathes.

You stare at him. You don’t understand. Maybe it’s because you don’t want to. If you keep denying it, it might not be the very idea that makes your skin crawl.

He reaches for his glass of wine and holds it out. You stare at it, then look him in the face. You can’t wipe the horror from your face.

“Cheers to us, sweetheart,” he says, “me and you.”

You shake your head as he waits. Slowly you take the glass before you and raise it. He clinks the crystal between you.

“It’s the first day of the rest of our lives,” he declares, “we can both build the home we always wanted. Together.”

🎮

Andy pays the bill as you wallow in futility. This is it. Your life is over. All because of one mistake. All because you trusted the wrong person.

He stands first and you follow. He grabs the to-go box of the food you barely touched. You’re in such a fog, you can barely think. He gestures you towards the door as he nudges you with the box. You hug your purse to your stomach and walk between the tables.

The cool night air wakes you up. As you come to the sidewalk, you stop. You turn back to him and wet your mouth, a hint of wine on your tongue.

“Call. Right now,” your voice shakes.

“What’s going on, sweetheart?” He inclines his head as if he doesn’t understand.

“The police. Call. You said you would help Kara,” you insist.

His brow arches and he nods. He holds out the container and you take it stiffly, letting your purse dangle from your shoulder. He pulls out his phone as he stares at you. Finally, he looks down and scrolls. He clears his throat before he puts it to his ear.

“Hi, yes, this is Andy Barber, I’m an attorney for a woman in your custody. Yes, I do.” You listen to the piecemeal conversation, “name is Kara Orascio. Yes, she won’t be talking to the police any longer. That’s correct.” He pauses and listens intently, “I’m out of town but I can be there tomorrow. Sure.”

He hangs up as his eyes cling to you still.

“So, looks like we need to pack,” he says.

“What?” You utter.

“Don’t you want to see your friend?” He challenges.

“Well, yes, but I thought you--”

“I’m not coming back here again. So, you’re coming. We’ll deal with your friend’s charges then we’ll go home.”

You blink, “home?”

“Sure, sweetheart, I got it all ready for you,” he turns down the sidewalk and takes your hand.

You have the urge to rip your hand out of his. You want to tell him not to touch you. You want to scream and run away. You don’t because you want to save Kara more.

“I meant what I said before. I can get you into school down there,” he guides you along, “you’ll like it. It's close to Boston. Place called Nelson. You ever been to Massachusetts?”

“Hm, no, didn’t travel much.”

“That’s okay. We can do some of that too. Still got lots of summer left. We could go somewhere sunny,” he drawls, “you know, it gets gloomy in the fall so we may as well enjoy it while we can.”

“Sure,” you murmur.

Your feet are heavy, your head too, every part of you just wants to give up. Haven’t you? Isn’t that what this is? You surrender.

“You okay, sweetheart?” He stops and lets go of you, fishing around in his pocket.

“I’m...” your vision narrows in; just like the moment you first met him. As Andy. As the real him. As the twisted man you just sold your soul to. “...tired.”

“Aw, yeah, well, it’s been a long few days. For both of us. You wanna come back to my hotel. The bed’s really cozy and the tub is deep. You could relax for the night before we gotta get on the road,” he offers.

You shake your head, “n-no,” you stutter. The last thing you want to do is be alone behind closed doors with him. “You said... pack. I should... do that.”

“Ah, I did. Alright, I’ll take you to your grandma’s. I’ll have to come early so we can get to your friend.”

“Right,” you agree coarsely.

“Trust me. I know how to handle cops,” he chuckles and pulls out his keys, unlocking the car right beside you. He opens the door and steps back, “I’ll call ahead. Get us a room as there too. I guess you’re going to want to catch up with your friend while we’re there. Might be a while before you see her again.”

You wince and look at him. A while. You look around at the street lights. You’re not unhappy. Leaving this place doesn’t matter to you but leaving Kara, possibly forever, that’s a knife in the chest. But forever is easier if you know she’s okay. If you know she doesn’t pay for your stupidity.

You nod and get in the car. You can’t speak. If you even try, you’ll bawl. The end is there, you feel it closing you in with the car door.

#andy barber #dark andy barber #dark!andy barber #andy barber x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #end game #defending jacob

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thegirlwhorideslikeasamurai · 2 days

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I can't stop thinking about how the opening lines of Yuri!!! on Ice sound like the beginning of a love story:

"He never fails to surprise me. Ever since I first saw his skating, it's been an unending chain of surprises."

These lines combined with the images of young and adult Viktor skating and the intermediate shot of Yuuri growing up in fast motion are vibrant with symbolism and foreshadowing. They introduce us to Yuuri's obsession with Viktor that started when Yuuri was on the brink of puberty, just old enough to experience his gay awakening when he saw that silver-haired ethereal beauty dance on the blades and his heart was set on fire. Viktor is skating on the other side of the rink—physically, emotionally, and in skill he is far away from Yuuri.

From there on, Viktor becomes the centre of Yuuri's whole universe, a dream still distant, but also a goal to work towards to. For the next 12 years, Yuuri will sacrifice everything to reach this goal as an athlete and to satisfy his parasocial yearning. The sequence ends with Viktor giving Yuuri a private performance of the very programme that, at last, brought them together. They are no longer distant, neither physically nor emotionally, nor in skill. For twelve years, it was Yuuri reaching for Viktor, but now Viktor is here, reaching for Yuuri in response.

How often must Yuuri have wished that Viktor would perform this arm move right in front of him? How often did Yuuri imagine to perform this move in front of Viktor while he was practising Stammi Vicino to rekindle his love for skating and to compete on the same ice as Viktor again? Was he feeling a connection to Viktor when he showed the programme to his friend while at the same time Viktor was skating Stammi Vicino at Worlds? Was he imagining himself in Viktor's stead or was he imagining Viktor standing behind the barrier?

In all this time since Yuuri first saw Viktor's skating and neglected everything else in his life to reach Viktor, did Viktor neglect his own life to become the legend he is today. While everything Yuuri did to feel closer to Viktor screams of longing, Viktor's own longing for a love he has yet to meet remains invisible, until he poured it all into this very personal free programme, a programme that will finally bring him together with the one that will give him life and love. In this sense, it seems almost ironic that Yuuri only starts practising Stammi Vicino after his dream has shattered into millions of pieces in Sochi—at a point in his life when Viktor suddenly seems unreachable again.

What started as a parasocial relationship that inspired Yuuri to chase his dream finally blossomed into the sweetest love as he and Viktor got to know each other. Fascination is what keeps the passion burning and Yuuri's words in the opening make it seem as if Viktor surprising him is a law of nature. It's a gentle foreshadowing into a future in which Yuuri will keep being fascinated with Viktor no matter what. For Yuuri, it has always been and always will be Viktor, and these opening lines put everything Viktor is for him in a nutshell.

The opening lines of Yuri!!! on Ice sound like a love story because the story of Yuuri and Viktor is a love story.

#yuri on ice #katsuki yuuri #viktor nikiforov #yoi #viktuuri #not a meta #just my tired friday night ramblings

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1800kfics · 2 days

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Bittersweet

pairing: beomgyu x reader

wc: 2.5k

genre: angst + smut :0

It has been 2 months since Beomgyu broke up with you.

You had been passing the time by distracting yourself with your classes and friends. Nothing felt the same without him, though. The blueberry lattes you both would share from your favorite cafe turned bitter, and his side of the bed was always cold.

You hated the way he broke up with you.

He had spent the whole weekend with you acting like he wasn’t going to end things. When he finally did break up with you, he started crying before you did.

His reasoning confused you. He said that he was “too immature” for you and was only weighing you down. He wouldn’t listen to any amount of reassurance from you, he had already convinced himself otherwise.

You tried to put him out of your mind, you really did. But it was hard when he kept texting you. First came the “how are you?” text near midnight 2 days after you broke up. You were crying silently to yourself when your phone lit up, so it was safe to say that you were not happy to see that it was the perpetrator of your tears.

You played along, however. You couldn’t pretend that you didn’t miss him. When he sent you a selfie with the bear plush you had bought him for his last birthday, you hearted the picture..

A month ago, he called. You picked up.

He’s called consistently the past 4 Sunday nights. The night he broke up with you. The first time he called, you had half expected him to ask for all the clothes he had left at your apartment back. He didn’t.

It was awkward at first, but became a part of the week you involuntarily looked forward to. You hadn’t just lost a partner when you broke up; you had lost a best friend. Your other best friends would kick you for saying that, but there was something so special about trusting someone with your time, secrets, and body.

Some nights he would ask about your day, listen intently, then tell you about his. Other nights were rougher on your conscience. He would reminisce about your time together, followed by large bouts of silence. It was evident that you both missed each other. These calls made you sad and confused. You’ve tried asking why he broke up with you and if he still misses you, but he continued to say that he didn’t “deserve” to be with you, that he loved you too much to continue to be a burden.

It didn’t matter what kind of night it was, you would always hang up first. His voice would always falter when he bid you farewell. In reality, it terrified him that you might decide one day to not pick up his call - that he might never hear your voice again.

“Goodnight, sweet dreams my love.” He never dropped the pet names, which gave you mixed emotions. On one hand, it tore you apart. On the other hand, you were glad he never stopped.

His texts became more and more blunt the more you opened up again over the phone. When you texted him that the blueberry latte didn’t taste the same anymore, he responded, “I know”.

Last week’s call was interesting to say the least. When he asked you about your day, he wasn’t as responsive as he usually was. When you finished, the other end of the line was silent. “Gyu?” you said softly. “Keep… keep talking” he said breathily. So you told him the nuances of your day like you used to when the two of you were dating.

When you had nothing more to say, you asked him how his day went. He didn’t answer your question.

“Have you slept with anyone since we broke up?” He asks.

You’re silent for a moment. You couldn't bring yourself to be intimate with anyone since you broke up. Your friends tried to get you out there. You tried.

“No.” You confess.

He sighs, seemingly in relief. “Good. I haven’t either.”

Shaky breaths came through the mic. “Gyu? Are you okay?” You ask. Your mind immediately goes to what he could be doing, but you dismiss it. He couldn’t be.

But he was.

Cover blown, he lets out a light moan. “I miss you… so much.” He says with a half whine.

You don’t know how to react to your ex shamelessly touching himself while on the phone with you.

“I miss you too Beomgyu… so much.” You say after a pause.

“Do you really? Say it again for me. Please” He whimpers.

Weirdly, you wanted to let him have this. You enjoyed this.

“I do. I miss coming home to you, miss your embrace, miss you in bed next to me…” You tell him. You weren’t lying.

His breaths get shallower, and his speech labored. “God I need you… can’t do anything without you, f-fuck… nothing without you.” He rambles.

You feel something stir in your core, but you don’t let yourself act on it. This was wrong.

“Wanna hear your voice…” he pleads with you.

You inhale deeply. “I miss the way your breath feels on my skin, the way your tongue feels in my mouth… I miss the way you feel inside of me. I miss the way you make me feel. I miss you.”

With that, he let out a strangled moan, then went quiet.

“Thank you, my love.” He said gently.

“Goodnight, Gyu.” With that, you hung up. Needless to say, you had trouble sleeping that night.

It was Sunday night again, a week after the incident. You had just gotten back from an exhausting dinner with your friends. Almost its entirety was spent lecturing you on how you should cut contact with Beomgyu, how foolish you were for letting him back into your life.

“I don’t know why you respond to his texts, let alone his calls… if he loves and misses you so much, why did he break up with you? I don’t get it. Either way, letting him weasel himself back into the picture is dangerous. You don’t want him back, right?” Your friend advises.

What your friends don’t know is that you do want him back. So desperately. He sends mixed signals - leaving you sad and confused - but that doesn’t mean you love him any less.

His call couldn’t have come any sooner.

“Gyu.” You say rawly.

He says your name back, voice hoarse as if he hadn’t spoken all day. He speaks again.

“I… I miss you.”

You sigh even though you knew he would say something like this. You stay silent.

“Do you miss me too?” He asks apprehensively.

“I… I do. I miss you, Gyu. But listen, we… I can’t keep doing this.” You respond.

After a few heartbeats, he speaks up.

“I know, I know we need to stop. That this is wrong. But… I need to see you. Please. One last time. Come over.”

You’re silent for more than a few heartbeats. You contemplate for a minute. For the sake of self-preservation, your brain was yelling at you to deny his request, hang up on him, and block his number. The ugly truth was that you needed him just as much as he needed you.

“Now?”

He was quick to respond. “Yes, god, any time. I would let you in at any hour of any day”

You look over at the clock. It reads 11:13pm.

“Ok… ok. See you soon.” You think out loud. You hang up and slink out of bed. I’m definitely not telling my friends about this, you think to yourself.

20 minutes pass and you’re approaching his apartment unit. You knock softly, knowing that he was probably waiting nearby the door. He always was like a puppy dog.

As you expected, he opened the door almost immediately. You both were silent for a moment, laying eyes on each other for the first time in 2 months.

He had baggy eyes and puffy lips. He was wearing the plaid pajama pants you got him last Christmas. You’re sure you look like you’re in bad shape, but that doesn’t matter. You’re not here to look pretty for him.

He outstretches his arms to wrap you in them and you walk forward, letting it happen. You stand at his doorway for a moment, holding onto each other. When you pull away, he looks at you in the eye. Suddenly realizing how bad this idea probably was, your eyes dart to the side, breaking contact.

He senses your unease. “Want… want to sit? To talk?” He asks. You shrug. He’s the one who asked you to come over in the first place. He leads you to the couch with a light hand on your back.

When you’re both sitting, it’s silent for a moment. You decide to ask the question you’ve been agonizing over for the past 2 months.

“Why did you break up with me Beomgyu? I know why, but why couldn’t we have worked through it together?”

He stares at his feet as he responds. “I told you. I was a burden to you already, I wasn’t going to burden you with my problems.”

“Gyu, you’re the only one who thinks that. Please stop being so hard on yourself.” You counter.

“You’re better off without me.” He mumbles. This makes a spark of anger light up inside of you. It’s so ironic considering the fact that he is making it impossible to move on.

“Then why won’t you leave me alone?” You ask, voicing your thoughts and raising your voice slightly, making him raise his head to meet your eyes.

Surprisingly, he responds with equal fervor. “Because I need you! I need you like-like air. I can’t stay away from you.”

“Why are you pushing me away then?” You say, softer this time.

He responds candidly, “I don’t want you to see my shortcomings. I don’t want you around when all I’m going to do is be a loser. You deserve more than that. More than me.” he continues. “But I don't want you to move on, to stop loving me. I’m… I’m fucked up. I’m sorry.”

He has tears welling up in his eyes at this point. The both of you do. Your eyes meet with his and you search them like they hold all of the answers.

Suddenly he leans forward and you let him. His lips ghost yours, noses touching. After what felt like eternity, he pressed his lips against yours tentatively. He swiped your bottom lip with his tongue, asking for entrance. You let him in, letting him explore your mouth.

After a few minutes of teeth clashing and knees bumping, he breaks away and stands up. He extends his hand out to you. Looking up at him, you take it. You would let him lead you anywhere.

You trail behind him to the bedroom. Your thoughts are racing. This is wrong. I missed him so much. We shouldn’t be doing this. I just want to feel his touch again.

He climbed onto the bed, releasing your hand and beckoning you over. He sits in front of you, spreading your legs to get closer to you. Your lips find each other again.

He pulls away from you, begrudgingly so, and backs up enough to grab your pants by the waistline and pull them off of you. He slotted himself between your legs and sunk his head down like he had so many times before.

You can feel his breath against your core as he presses light kisses in the innermost parts of your thighs. He finally starts by pressing his tongue flat against you, licking a strip up to your now throbbing clit. His spit mingles with your juices as he eats you out. Your mind drifts to all the times he ate you out, how he destressed you instantly and turned your bad day on its head. He always knew how to take care of you. His soft grip on the plush of your thighs tightens lightly as you start to squirm around.

Your thoughts melt away as Beomgyu continues to work in between your legs. Your stomach begins leaping with anticipation, and you know you’re getting close. Your hands search for something to hold. One finds the sheets, crumpling up as much of it as you could into your balled fist, and the other reaches down to grab a handful of his hair.

He knows you’re close. Your legs start jolting and you let out breathy moans. He slows down and retreats from your now soaked cunt. He wipes his chin lazily with the sleeve of his shirt, sitting up. He starts tracing circles on your thigh, suddenly acting sheepish. You push yourself up onto your elbows.

“What is it?” You ask, having your high stolen from you just moments ago.

“I want… I want you.” He says quietly.

“You can have me. You can have all of me, Gyu.” You say, letting yourself collapse back onto the bed.

You feel the bed rise then sink again as he takes off his pants. Staring at his ceiling you realize that coming to bed with your ex wasn’t the best idea. It was a lie to say that he didn’t always have you, though. That you ever stopped being his.

With that, Beomgyu climbs up alongside you, encaging your body under his. You had just given him the world. He wastes no time aligning himself with you and slowly sliding in, filling you up with a slight burn.

As he thrust in and out of you, he craned his neck down so his lips could meet yours. Lightly you tasted yourself in his mouth, yet it mattered not because in this moment he was you and you were him.

When his lips weren’t desperately on yours, they were buried into the crook of your neck. “I missed this so fucking much… I missed you” he panted. His voice was muffled yet his words were perfectly clear.

After a bit you could feel your release approaching. Your orgasm that had been pent up for the past two months. You finally reach it, Beomgyu fucking you through your high. Your release was bittersweet.

His thrusts became less coordinated and shallower. He always was vocal, though the whines and whimpers were amplified due to the lack of physical intimacy for the past 2 months.

“God, fuck… feels so good… I hope this feeling is the last thing I feel on Earth.”

As he reaches his release, he presses his forehead against yours, hot breath against your face. Routinely so, as it were. He always did like to be close to you as he came.

He pulled out of you and slumped down at your side. He quickly snaked his arm around your waist and pulled you close to him.

Hazily, he says, “I just want you in my arms tonight. Please. Don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

With that, the two of you fall asleep, him hugging you like if he held you tight enough you wouldn’t leave again.

#beomgyu #beomgyu smut #beomgyu x reader #beomgyu x reader smut #txt smut #txt x reader

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55sturn · 3 hours

Note

All i wanted was you pt2

(Please🙏)

✮ I CAN FEEL YOU ALL AROUND ME

pairing: chris sturniolo x fem!reader

synopsis: in which chris is consumed by his feelings for you and the hurt he feels from his confession going wrong is drowning him, while on the other side of the city, you’re suffocated by the figurative ghost of him everywhere in your apartment.

warnings: swearing, angst, slight comfort, stubborn!chris, stubborn!reader, avoidant attachment!reader, desperate!chris, kissing, mentions of violence, she/her pronouns used for the reader.

disclaimer: this is part two to this fic right here!

THIRD PERSON POV

you were stubborn. that has been a known fact since you were a tiny child, always determined to get your way while never backing down or settling for less. you were stubborn, and there was no other way to put it. everyone who has ever met would use that to describe you. someone would determined as a way to sugarcoat what they really meant, but even in doing so, the real meaning was there, lingering above the light-hearted conversation like a dark cloud.

so to absolutely no one’s surprise, you weren’t letting up on your idea to forget about chris. you wouldn’t even dare speak his name. you knew it wasn’t healthy, this whole “if i don’t think about him, he doesn’t exist.” mentality, but you needed to get over everything you felt for him, even if it meant ridding your life of nearly three years worth of memories, nearly three years of friendship. he was like a stubborn ghost, sticking around and taunting you from the depths of your apartment. his cologne lingering on your blankets and pillows, flooding your senses as you try to will yourself to sleep without thinking about his body next to yours, his quiet laugh sounding in your ears as you ramble about indiscernible nonsense as delirium clouds both your minds.

you would force yourself to toss his clothes into the box at the back of your closet, trying not to think about the memories attached to each article you find, trying not to smile softly at the memory of you wrapping his yellow zip up around your body as you stumble down the sidewalk from some party, chris somewhere behind you, his knuckles bloodied as he lays your douchebag of an ex boyfriend out unconscious on the ground, fed up with the guy’s chirping as you walk away. you will away the thoughts of chris standing above you, his face stoic, an emotion so deep that it’s unreadable storming in the blues of his eyes, darkening them as he tells you,

“i would lay my life on the fucking line for you, i would go to jail if it meant saving you.”

the cadence in which you remember him speaking in sending chills down your spine, the memory of chris timidly raising a hand, brushing your wild hair behind your ears before drawing you in and laying a gentle kiss to you forehead forcing you to shut your eyes, locking the memory in the pandora’s box of your mind.

every part of your body burned with the feeling of his touch, every crevice of your mind and your apartment were haunted by his ghost. you could feel him all around you, and it hurt to mourn someone who was still alive, to be forced to mourn someone as the consequence of your own doing.

it was beautiful, in a melancholic and twisted sort of way how you and chris were feeling the same. the two of you, more often than not, mirrored each other’s feelings. the two of you could be apart for weeks to months due to travelling, and nick would tell you how terrifying it was that he was in the exact same state you were in, even when apart.

the two of you were two sides of a mirror, both of you a reflection of the other. there was no connection quite like the one you and chris shared, you were soulmates, in this life, the next, and every life after and in between. so for his brothers to see the two of you torn apart by your own feelings, was heartbreaking.

chris was distraught, where you were avoiding him and what you felt for him, he was drowning in what he felt for you. there was no way for him to escape the torturous constant replay of the night he confessed to you in his head. he’d wake up, think about that night, he’d eat, think about that night, he’d film, think about that, and he’d fall asleep nearly in tears because there was no escaping the thoughts of you. almost every thought he formed was about you, if not all of them.

he was exhausted, he just wanted one day where he didn’t regret expressing his feelings to you, but that seemed unattainable. he knew he shouldn’t regret expressing them, because there’s nothing wrong with loving anyone, but the way you reacted made him think that he was committing a sin. he wanted to hate you for making him feel so foolish, but he couldn’t. god he could never hate someone like you. you were one of a kind in his eyes, you were the center of his universe. the very reason he changed his outlook on love, you once told him, “to be loved, is to be known.” you explained it in the sense that, to love someone is know everything about them, to know every version, is to learn to love them on their good days, their bad days, and their darkest days.

and god did he love you, he loved every version of you. he loved you in every light, every moment in time. his love for you consumed every part of his soul. for chris to be chris, was to love you.

you had gone out to some hole-in-the-wall type restaurant with your friends, hoping to ease your mind for just a few mindless hours, to forget about chris for just a fraction of your day. but when you showed up, chris was standing outside the door beside nick, completely engrossed in his phone, a blank and solemn look on his face. when you had suggested to eat at this place, it slipped your mind that chris had shown you this restaurant one night when the two of you couldn’t sleep, soon leading to it become his favourite place to eat any time he wanted to go out.

you had two options, enter the restaurant which meant passing by chris and enduring a tough conversation, or turning around and pretending like you never saw him and telling your friends something came up. but your body yearned for his tough, for the type of hug from him that warmed every part of your body, that eased the deepest parts of your heart. and it seemed like you body had a mind of its own as you took tentative steps toward the man your heart called home.

you felt your stomach stir with butterflies wanting to crawl their way up your throat, making you feel like you were going to throw up as approached the man, hoping to pass by him and make your way to your table.

“excuse me.” you mumble, your voice hoarse and unsteady as chris’ head snaps up, his eyes meeting yours for the first time in almost a month.

“y/n, wha-what are you doing here?” he whispers, his fingers twitching at his sides, screaming to reach out and touch your face to prove this wasn’t a dream.

“i’m here to meet some friends but you’re blocking the door.” you sigh, your eyes looking everywhere but his face as you shift awkwardly on your feet.

“shit sorry.” he coughs, stepping to the side as you flash him an appreciative smile, quickly tugging the door open and stepping inside, immediately spotting your friends.

as you sat at the table, you couldn’t find it in you to engage in anything your friends talked about, your mind racing a mile a minute as you tried to drown out the sound of chris talking to his brothers and the feeling of his eyes boring into the back of your head. your closest friend had easily noticed the shift in your mood as the night went on, immediately connecting the dots as she met chris’ eyes across the restaurant, his face reddening as she caught him staring at the back of your head.

chris felt his heart hammering incessantly away in his chest, threatening to crack open his ribcage as he tried, so fucking hard, to keep his attention off you but he couldn’t. and who could blame him? the only girl he’s ever truly, genuinely loved, is sitting maybe fifteen to twenty feet away, and all he wants to do is talk to her, is hold her close, breathing in the sweet but oh-so comforting scent of her perfume, to tell her that things are okay.

but he couldn’t. he knew you wanted space, and he wants to respect that, and so that’s what he chooses to do, but to see you, to have you so close, yet just out of reach, is killing him, and his sense of self control is wearing thinner by the second. all logic and sound reasoning is fleeting as he fights himself internally. and as he watches you place your cash in the table and rise from your seat, he throws caution to the wind. muttering something about getting matt to cover his part of the bill and paying him back later as he hops up from his chair, quickly making his way to the door as your figure exits the building.

“y/n wait!” he pleads, his voice thick with desperation as you immediately halt your movements, his voice always compelling you to do the simplest of things as you turn to face him, your fingers wringing together as chris takes quick strides to meet you halfway.

“what do you want chris?” you mutter, your voice broken and tired as you meet his gaze, the backs of your burning with forcefully unshed tears, watching chris’ eyes dart back and forth across your faces, the whites reddening as he blinks and wills away his own set of tears.

“fuck-i can’t do this.” he exclaims, the unintentional but painful harshness of his words rolling off your back like water as you open your mouth to respond, closing it again as he beats you to talking first,

“i can’t have these, like, short, blink and you’ll miss it type moments with you for the rest of my life. i can’t. i won’t. i won’t survive only seeing you for a few minutes every few months or weeks when i least expect it. not when i know i could spend every day of the rest of my life with you by my side. it will kill me. so please y/n, give me something to work with. i love you, and i know hearing me say that scares the living shit out of you, but i’m here. i am not going anywhere. i know you’re scared of me leaving, but we haven’t talked in almost a month, and i’m still here in the same position, begging you to just let me in, to let me help you work through these fears and worries. i’ve loved every version of you, even the ones that hurt everyone around you just because you were hurting. so please y/n, just make this easier and let us learn to not be scared together.” he pleads, the tears he held back for so long finally flowing freely down his face as he carefully watches your expression, fearful of another night of rejection, but the way your eyes soften, and the ghost of the tiniest smile on your face eases his worries as you step toward him.

“okay.”

taglist: @worldlxvlys @vanteguccir @sturnioloshacker @mattscoquette @sugrhigh @bratzforchris @teapartyprincess4two @lustfulslxt @patscorner @guccifrog @muwapsturniolo @soursturniolo @solarsturniolo @sturnioloshacker @raysmayhem-72 @meanttomeet @ghostofbrock @l9vesick @freshloveee @fawnchives @cindylcuwho @freshloveforthefit @freshsturns @forevergirlposts @sturniolo-fav-matt @sturnifyed @querenciasturniolo @pinklittleflower @ellie-luvsfics @strniolo @junnniiieee07 @hearts4chriss @evie-sturns @sturniolossss @iliketotalk @bambi-slxt @nickssidewitch @nickgetsmewetter @inkyray @jnkvivi @cdbabymp3 @christopherswife777 @certified-chrisgirl @faeriedst @bernardsbendystraws @mattscoquette

#chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo angst #chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo x fem!reader #christopher sturniolo #christopher sturniolo smut #christopher sturniolo angst #christopher sturniolo x reader #christopher sturniolo x fem!reader

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eiraeths · 2 days

Note

something something soap helping ghost with personal hygiene when he cant take care of himself something something

(i am projecting)

soap can always tell when ghost’s mental state is getting bad again. ghost doesn’t act any different or become less attentive. his sleeping habits don’t change—which, it’s not like they’ve ever been stable in the first place.

it’s ghost’s mask that’s always the warning sign.

when they’re alone together, holed up in their barracks or off back at home, ghost takes the mask off. at least, he normally does. when the mask stays on more, soap knows something is wrong.

like usual, it all comes into clarity after ghost has a nightmare. soap blinks the sleep out of his eyes to see ghost hunched over the side of the bed. he can see the tense lines in ghost’s posture even in the dim lighting of their room.

soap can see the mask too.

after a little convincing—and a lot of crushing ghost with his full body weight until ghost stopped shaking—soap leads ghost to the bathroom. the process starts off slow. soap peels off ghost’s mask, whispering gentle assurances and caressing his skin with soft strokes along the way.

he’ll draw ghost a bath and help him get settled in and spend how ever long ghost needs pampering him. he’ll wash ghost’s hair and make sure the conditioner stays in long enough to have affect. while the conditioner does it’s job in ghost’s short shaven curls, soap will use his hands to wash ghost’s body.

there’s nothing sexual about this intimacy of theirs. it’s trust in it’s purest form. here in this space they’ve curated, they can relax and trust the other will watch over them. and right now, soap watches over ghost.

once soap gets ghost rinsed off, he’ll help him out of the tub and find the fuzziest towel he can. even when ghost insists he can do it himself soap will take his time drying ghost off.

by now, ghost knows the routine. he wraps the towel around his waist and sits on the toilet lid. soap spends his time rubbing moisturizer into ghost’s skin, hands gentle but firm as they rub into sore muscles.

when soap reaches ghost’s face, soap puts the most attention into cleansing the acned skin. unscented moisturizer with vitamin e goes on the scars with all the care soap’s body can achieve. after that, he puts heart shaped acne patches onto every irritated bump, and leaves light kisses everywhere there’s not.

soap then combs out ghost’s hair and puts a leave in spray in it, just to keep the curls from drying out too quick. by this time, ghost’s eyes are fully closed and his face will be pressed against soap’s abdomen. soap will cradle ghost’s head and continue running his hands through the damp curls.

only when ghost asks to go back to bed will they move. until then, soap’s satisfied to stay here and hold ghost together.

#ohemgee i write something cute and fluffy for once?#also this was very fun thank you for the ask <3 #ghoap #soapghost #ghostsoap #ghost x soap #john soap mactavish #soap x ghost #simon ghost riley #soap cod #soap call of duty #ghost cod #ghoap drabble #ghoap fluff #cod mw #call of duty modern warfare #ear’s lovely asks

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guilty-pleasures21 · 3 days

Text

The Android

Boss!Miguel x Android!Reader (female)

I know, guys, I have so many other fics I'm supposed to be working on and I am! I am working on them! But I just had this idea sitting on my mind for a while and I had to let it out!

Warnings: descriptions of sex including penetration (p in v).

----------------------------------------------------------

You lie on your side on the sofa, adjusting your robe as you wait for Miguel to return. He’d make you wear it whenever he knew he was going to have a particularly stressful day at work, but you didn’t mind: it was what you were made for, after all. Everyone had a helper droid in 2099, whether to look after their household or manage their company’s finances or provide them with some … company whenever they needed it. Helper droids had become as commonplace as smartphones had been in the early 2000s. You straighten slightly as Miguel finally storms into the room, frustrated by what had likely been another round of fruitless meetings. He sighs as he loosens his tie and sinks into his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tries to calm down. You cross one leg over the over, allowing some of the outrageously expensive sheer material to fall away and reveal your smooth skin. Had he not seen you? Maybe he just needed a moment to calm down. You wait patiently until he calls you, strands of his wavy brown hair falling over his forehead as he hunches over.

“Querida.” You hop up and scurry over to him, your circuits sparking when he finally acknowledges your presence.

“¿Sí, mi amor?” you question, placing a hand on his broad and firm shoulder. He slides his arm around your waist, his fingers digging into your side as he pulls you closer to him, then he loosens his grip when he feels your soft curves pressing against him. “You want to talk about it?”

Miguel grunts in disagreement, his hand drifting down to your ass as he lifts his head to check his computer screen. “¡Mierda! I have another one in an hour!”

He squeezes your soft flesh in frustration and you lean over to check for yourself.

“But it’s your last one for the day,” you point out, always looking for the silver lining. “I can leave early and prepare dinner first.”

He sighed as you ran your fingers through his hair, his eyelids fluttering shut when you bent over to press a kiss to the side of his head. He turned to face you, his chest warming at how easy everything always was with you, then watched as his fingers travelled up your sides. He spread his legs, gesturing for you to step forward between them and you smiled down at him before obliging his silent request. Dios, you were perfect - your beautiful curves, your silky hair, your gorgeous smile … You’d turned out even better than he’d imagined when he was designing you. You ruffle his hair teasingly and he frowns up at you, but then relaxes again when you cup his cheeks in your hands, tilting his face up to yours. You treat him to another sweet smile and his heart thuds in his chest as you lower your lips to his.

“Mmm, princesa …” Miguel moans as you kiss him softly, your slender fingers gliding down his neck and across his shoulders. He tugs you even closer to him when you straighten and gestures for you to take a seat on his leg. “Siéntate, querida. (Sit down, darling.)”

You swing your leg over his, settling yourself down on his muscular thigh. His expression softens as you wriggle against him in anticipation and he reaches a hand up to bring your mouth back to his. Your toes curl as you kiss him, your legs dangling above the ground, but you remain fixed in position, dutifully letting him take the lead. Your core begins heating up as his hands start wandering over your body, his warm fingers tracing the outlines of your delicate curves. Then he slips a hand behind your knee and swings your leg over his other thigh, getting you to straddle his lap. You flash him a thrilled smile which he returns tenfold when you giggle at the feeling of his large hands cupping your ass appreciatively. He squeezes your soft flesh, grinding you against him, and you bite your lip as your head falls back in pleasure.

F*ck, you were beautiful. So soft and so sweet and so f*cking perfect. He felt his core tighten at the sight of the blissful expression on your face, but then you flicked your hair over your shoulder and he felt his brain go numb with arousal at the sight of your curly waves tumbling down the side of your face as you leaned over him.

“Querido …” You straighten when you see the dazed expression on his face, then slide your hands down his chest, waiting for him to focus again. But he doesn’t look up at you, his eyes fixed on your body as he unties the ribbon around your waist and peels your robe off your shoulders. He sucks in a breath as your deliciously perky breasts are revealed to him, then he reaches up to cup them in his hands.

“Eres … Eres muy perfecta, mi amor (You're ... You're so perfect, my love),” he mumbles, jiggling your soft flesh before pressing his lips to your nipple and suckling on you. Your back arches as your core contracts at the feeling, your body pushing your chest towards him as it begs for more. Miguel slides his hands down to your ass and continues grinding you against him, his tongue flicking and gliding across your nipple as he teases you. You reach down and quickly undo his trousers so you can slip your hand into his underwear and take hold of his cock. You sigh when your fingers curl around his thick bulk, then you begin squeezing and stroking him, doing your best to treat him to even half as much pleasure as he’s showering you with.

“Mi … Miguel … Querido …” He groaned at the desperation in your voice - at how badly you wanted him. Then he released your breast with a wet ‘pop’ and pulled off your robe entirely, tossing it on the ground before running his hands all over your bare skin.

And that was how Lyla found you: sat on Miguel’s lap, your p*ssy very obviously stuffed full with his cock while his mouth swallowed your breast, his large hands wandering all over your naked body. She gasped, startled by the unexpected sight, but honestly, no longer surprised by it at this point. You look up when you hear the sound and flash her a grin and a small wave.

“Dr O’Hara was feeling stressed!” you inform her, your legs swinging back and forth as Miguel continues playing with your body.

“I can see that,” Lyla replies, amused by your innocence as you greet her cheerfully. She closes the door behind her and walks over to Miguel’s desk to slap some papers down on it. “I got the reports you need for your next meeting. Which is in thirteen minutes, by the way.”

Miguel growls at the warning, the low rumble of his voice travelling through your bones causing you to shiver against him. He squeezes your ass as your p*ssy clenches around him and you barely register Lyla’s next words.

“Okay! Well,” she begins, turning around to start making her way back out, “I’m not going to hold them off this time, so you’d better not be late.”

You let out a choked gasp and dig your fingers into his shoulders as Miguel begins thrusting his hips against yours, trying not to be too loud as his thick cock begins sliding in and out of your p*ssy so deliciously.

“Twelve minutes!” Lyla calls back as she walks out, the sound of the door slamming shut behind her drowning out the lewd sounds of your love-making.

You giggle as Miguel tosses you down on the bed, his broad form looming over you. You run your hands down his chest as he lowers himself on top of you, admiring the defined curvature of his toned muscles and he grins as his fingers begin tracing the outlines of your curves.

¡Mierda, you were perfect! Your delectable little body fitting so perfectly against his … He didn’t think he’d ever be able to get enough of you.

“¡Ay, p*tas, cariño!” he exclaims as he brushes his nose down the side of your neck. “¡Ay, coño, mi amor! Eres muy, muy perfecta, mi cielo … muy linda, muy hermosa, mi vida. Muy perfecta, muy perfecta, mi princesita.” (Ah, f*ck, sweetheart! Ah, f*ck, my love! You're so, so perfect, my darling ... so lovely, so beautiful, my life. So perfect, so perfect, my little princess.)

You drag your fingernails down his back, your body arching off the mattress as he slides his cock back inside of you. Holy shit! He always filled you up so, so nicely. He was so generous, your Miguel, so sweet and so loving with the way he always praised you and looked after you and showered you with everything any human woman’s heart could ever desire. He straightens to look down at you, wanting to see the dazed look that spreads across your adorable little face every time he enters you. He bends over to slip his tongue between your lips, kissing you as softly as he thrusts into you, and you slide your hands into his hair, scrunching the silky strands between your fingers. You nip his lower lip as your body contracts and he lets out a muttered curse as you fall back onto the mattress, the blissful look on your face driving him wild with desire.

“Cariño …” Miguel murmurs, licking his lips and cupping your cheek in his hand. He brushes his thumb across your soft skin, then trails it down to your breast to squeeze you. You bite your lower lip as your hips rise to meet his again and Miguel groans before falling back on top of you, his brain going numb with arousal. “Te amo princesa … Mi amor … Mi querida perfecta … Te … Te amo … Te amo tanto. I love you, querida … I love you so f*cking much, mi angelita hermosa.” (Sweetheart ... I love you, princess ... My love ... My perfect darling ... You ... I love you ... I love you so much. I love you, darling ... I love you so f*cking much, my pretty little angel.)

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, muffling his tender declarations of love. His hand moves to grab your ass and you let out a choked gasp as he begins tugging you harder against him, his lips and teeth grazing the skin of your neck hungrily.

“M-Migue-el …” you whine, feeling yourself getting closer and closer to your edge. “I … I love you too, Miguel! I love you so much, querido! I love you … I love you … I love you …”

Dios, you were beautiful. So cute and so soft and so f*cking delicious. He dragged his tongue along your neck and sucked on the underside of your jaw, where your pulse point should have been. But you didn't have a pulse. Because you didn't have a heart. Because you weren't a real life human being who could actually love him. Miguel freezes suddenly, feeling like someone has just dumped a bucket of ice over him. You whimper as your hips continue to move, desperately chasing your high.

“M-Miguel! What … What …” Finally, you realise that he's stopped, unmoving despite his fat cock still nestled so irresistibly inside of you. You push yourself up to a seat to face him, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. You notice Miguel's eyes darken as they fall to your breasts, but then he quickly drags his gaze away and pulls himself out of you.

“¿Querido?” you question, a surprised squeak escaping your lips at the sudden absence of his warmth. “¿Qué pasó, mi amor? (What happened, my love?)” You reach a hand up to cup his cheek and he lowers his head, avoiding your confused gaze.

“I-I … Nothing. It’s nothing, querida.” He shakes his head and twines his fingers with yours, his expression unreadable as he lowers your hand back down to your side. “I just … I’m just tired, that’s all. It’s been a long day and I need some rest.”

He sighs as he turns to the side and starts sliding off the bed and you feel your insides start to heat up at his unconvincing excuse.

“We should get cleaned up and go to b-”

“Miguel!” you whine, grabbing his head and stopping him before he can walk away from you. He twists his neck around, his brow furrowing as he takes in the upset pout on your lips and you press on despite the hesitation on his face. “Why won’t you make love to me?”

He let out a choked gasp at your intimate choice of words. Sure, he'd always seen it that way - as something so much more than just sex - but he hadn't known that you'd have been able to comprehend the difference between the two - between him using your body to pleasure himself and him worshipping you in the way he did almost every night. “I-I will! I do! I always do! I just …”

You shuffle closer to him, your grip on his hand tightening as your desperation grows. “¿Fui yo? ¿Fue algo que dije? ¡Te amo, mi querido! ¡Eres mi mundo, mi amor! (Was it me? Was it something I said? I love you, my darling! You are my world, my love!)”

He gritted his teeth as he tried to remove his hand from both of yours, his stomach sinking lower and lower with every word that came out of your mouth. Did you really mean it? Or had you just been programmed to say such things? You had no heart, so how could you possibly know what it meant to make such tender declarations of affection? To know what it meant to love someone?

“Lo sé, lo sé, mi querida,” he assures you, the guilt sweeping over him in waves. “Y eres mío también. Pero … (I know, I know, my darling. And you are mine, too. But …)” He paused as he tried to figure out what to say; to figure out how to explain it to you without hurting you. But you were just a robot - you couldn't get hurt.

“You don’t know what it means to love someone, Y/N,” he said softly. “You have no heart, cariño. No lungs, kidneys, no blood. You can’t possibly understand what it means to be in love with someone.”

If you had had a heart, you were sure it would have stopped beating right then. You sink back on your thighs, finally letting go of him, and your lip quivers as you try to come up with a response.

“B-But … But …” Miguel looks down at you, his expression unsympathetic as he waits, and eventually, you find the strength to draw your brows together and get off the bed. You storm over to the door, your insides feeling like they're on fire, but you stop and turn back to face him before leaving the room entirely. “I’m going to sleep in my pod tonight, Miguel.”

You swivel back around, biting down on your tongue to stop the words that instinctively threaten to fall from your lips: ‘te amo, mi querido’. Your circuits sparking as you fight against your programming, forcing yourself to put one foot in front of the other and continue marching away from your love.

Your pod?! You hadn't slept on your pod since the first month he'd gotten you - when both of you had still been too shy to do much about your mutual attraction. Well, he’d been too shy - you’d just been replicating the emotions he’d programmed into you. He chased after you, utterly confused by your uncharacteristically cold demeanour - you’d never gotten mad at him before. You couldn’t: the emotion had never been programmed into you.

“¡Querida!” He catches your wrist and tugs you back to him, spinning you around to face him. “No seas así, mi angelita. (Darling! Don't be like that, my little angel.)” He cups your cheek in his hand and frowns, trying to figure out how to placate you.

“What’s wrong with you?” he finally questions. You clench your fists and scoff in disbelief, your frustration with him growing with every ignorant word that falls from his mouth.

“What’s wrong with me?!” you exclaim, glaring up at him in anger. “You … You’re hurting me, Miguel! How can you say such cruel things?! I thought you loved me …” Your voice cracks on the last word and you wrench your face out of his grip, your body heating up with embarrassment now.

His breath caught in his throat as you pulled away from him, his hand frozen in the air in shock. He stayed in position as you turned away and watched silently as you continued on your way to the guestroom. Finally, he curled his fingers into his palm and decided to let you go, allowing both of you some space to process what had just happened.

You stand under the shower, tilting your head down so the water runs down your cheeks. Was this what it felt like to cry? To have the water trickling down your artificially manufactured skin like this? You sigh and shut off the tap, then dry yourself off before pulling on your pyjamas. You walk out of the bathroom, but pause when you see Miguel sitting on the edge of the bed, his shoulders tensed up to his ears. He looks up when he sees you and shoots to his feet, the distressed look on his face making you want to cave and rush back into his arms. But you stand your ground, your lips pressed together as you wait in silence.

He moved towards you, wanting to wrap you up in his arms and hold you close to him. But he stopped when he saw the way you glared up at him, hesitating in the face of your anger. He scratched the back of his neck, shifting uncomfortably in the suffocating silence. “I’m … sorry? I didn’t … I didn’t know you could get hurt.”

You bite down on your tongue, a muffled squeak escaping your throat as you stop yourself from accepting his half-assed apology. You wait until he lifts his head to meet your gaze again, the look on his face more uncertain than you'd ever seen it before. “That’s … not a very good apology, Miguel.”

His eyes widened, taken aback by your continued irritation. But you were right: it wasn't a good apology at all. He hunched over, embarrassed by the truth of your statement, and tried again. “I don’t want to hurt you; I never want to hurt you, princesa.”

Your muscles relax, your anger starting to fade at the sight of the adorable puppy dog eyes he gives you. But you don't want to forgive him so easily, so you snatch your gaze away and fold your arms over your chest, your expression stern.

Miguel sighed and curled his fingers around your waist, tugging you towards him. “Y/N. Tell me how to make it up to you. I don’t like seeing you upset, mi amor.”

You feel your anger waver even more as he begins pressing soft kisses to your cheek and neck. Finally, you sigh and lean into his touch. “I love you, Miguel. I really do love you .. in the only way that I understand how.”

He stroked your back gently, still too afraid to let himself that you truly could love him.

“I know, princesa.” You straighten to look at him and his eyes widen at something on your face. He brushes his thumbs across your cheeks and you suddenly register the dampness coating them. “Cariño … Are you … crying?”

Your lips part in surprise and you reach up to feel the wetness trickling from your eyes. You look up at Miguel, unable to help the wide grin that stretches across your face. “I am! I’m crying! I’m really crying, querido!”

He startled as you jumped up and wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in the crook of his neck. Could you … Could you really … be becoming real?! He patted your back gently, his heart thudding in his chest with hope at the possibility. Could you really love him? In just the way that he loved you? You straighten to look at him, that beautiful smile still stretched across your face, and he felt his own lips curl in response. He cupped your cheek in his hand and lowered his lips to yours, brushing them softly. “I love you, mi angelita.”

You giggle against Miguel's mouth and twist your fingers into his shirt. “I love you too, mi vida. But .. mmph! Miguel …”

You let out a squeak as he parts your lips with his, the slow sensuality of his movements causing your arousal to start leaking out of you. Miguel smiles and moves both hands back down to your waist, delighting in the way you're starting to lose your focus. “¿Sí, princesa?”

You shiver at how low his voice has become, but force yourself to retain control over your thoughts.

“I-I want … I want to be real, querido. To know … To know what it really feels like … to love you.” Your eyelids flutter shut as you stretch onto your toes, yearning for the taste of him on your tongue. “To have a heart and lungs and kidneys and blood … and maybe … and maybe a womb too … to carry our babies?”

Miguel chuckles softly against your lips and another shudder wracks through your body. “Our babies? You would want to have our little babies, querida?”

“Yes! Yes, mi amor!” Your body starts heating up again at the thought of having adorable little babies with him. He’d be such a wonderful father, your gentle and loving Miguel. “I love you, querido.”

He'd do it, he'd make you real. “I love you too, mi princesa perfecta.”

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veroniquesboutique · 1 day

Text

A Pain Like Home - Tsukishima Kei x Reader

Back-to-back smutty fics? I've hit my stride!

Total transparency, this idea came to me while perusing a few smut prompt posts. One of the prompts literally possessed my body, and I had to get the words out as fast as possible. I conceived of the idea, wrote it, and edited it in a matter of a day and a half, which is way faster than these things usually go.

You and Tsukishima Kei broke up months ago as your life fell into a downward spiral. However, every time you go searching for home, you inexplicably end up right back in his arms.

Hope you enjoy!

Title: A Pain Like Home

Rating: Explicit

Warnings:

AFAB!Reader, Female Reader, Explicit PV Sex, fingering, m-handjob, couch sex, unprotected sex, crying during sex, chest/body shots, baby used once as pet name, ANGST, ex sex, college au, mention of parent death, mention of injury, Y/N has chronic pain, super brief mention of suicidal ideation, Tsuki is kind of a dick in this one, but then again so are you

Characters & ships: ex!Tsukishima Kei x Reader

Word count: 4.6k words

A/N: This Y/N really tiptoes a line between reader insert and OC. She has a lot more backstory than my usual reader fics have. If you'd prefer more of a blank slate (and don't need to know the backstory of how you and Tsuki have found yourself in this situation to enjoy the explicit angst), then feel free to skip the italicized part. If you're here for the angst, though, I'd highly recommend it.

18+ Minors DNI!

More explicit below the cut

“You always end up back here.”

You jump, startled, at the sound of Kei Tsukkishima’s voice echoing through the gymnasium. It was late - later than usual - and the lights had been dimmed, so you weren’t expecting anyone when you slipped your key into the door’s lock. Your college’s gym feels more like home than any other place, and sometimes, on nights like this one, you needed to feel like you were home. On nights like this one, you broke into the gym.

It was about 50/50 on if you ran into your ex, Tsukki.

On this evening, the net was still up following the men’s team practice, and Tsukki was on the far side of the gym away from you. You could stay split like this, share the court half and half, and everyone could be happy.

“I could say the same for you,” You toss the comment at him, unbothered and unprovoked, just as you toss your gym bag to the ground out of the way and pick up the first wayward volleyball you see. You press your fingers into it, bounce it off the floor a few times, and then lob it into the air and strike it down hard and fast on your own side of the court. It hits the ground with a loud smack and bounces into the bleachers, wildly pinballing around, but you’re too distracted in picking up your next ball to pay too much attention. “I could set for you, if you want,” Tsukki half-heartedly spikes his own volleyball, but his attention is on you as you whip every ounce of fury and burning hurt into your shoulder and through the ball as it ricochets from your hand and into the rafters.

“I don’t need a setter.”

“No, you don’t,” He observes another ball whiz through the air, “But it could make this practice meaningful instead of you just hitting balls because you feel like it.”

You glare at him, squeezing the volleyball you have between your hands, knowing the way that this goes every single time.

Still, you were the one who chose to come home.

“Fine.” You duck under the net to join him on his side and pass him the volleyball with too much force that he diffuses easily under his taped finger tips. He bounces it once before sending it up in the air, and you, too, jump through the air to strike it down with a hard smack. It hits the floor with speed and precision, and despite the surprise gently caressing Tsukki’s face in the bend of his eyebrows or the twitch of his mouth, you roll your neck, shake it off, and get in position to hit another one. A pain shoots up through your leg, but you swallow it down, ignore it, push through it.

“You’ve been practicing.”

“Sometimes.”

“You’re being short. And I don’t just mean your height-”

“Just set the next one, Kei.”

He puffs out an annoyed sigh, but still he nods and sends another into the air. You jump again, smack, and fall. The ball nearly causes the air to crack with it’s intensity. That one hurt just a little, and you’re left rubbing the sting out of your palm as Tsukki traverses the gym, collecting the rogue balls to keep setting to you.

“Is it the same old problems?”

“You don’t get to know that anymore.”

Tsukki tosses another in the air, and you smack it down. He tosses again, you smack again. Toss, smack. Toss, smack. Toss, smack. By the time he runs out of balls again, your heart feels nearly as numb as your hands. You try to walk through the pain wrecking havoc in your body, but each step is a stumble instead of a stride. He starts to collect the balls again but stops by the net and turns back to you as you lean your body forward, hands on your knees and gasping for air.

“Look, you can say it’s not my place, but it is. You come in here fuming all the time when you have the power to change the circumstances you’re in-”

“-if I wanted your advice I’d ask-”

“You spend all this time trying to make other people fucking happy, acting like you have no choice, but you’re not powerless. You’re not some fucking damsel in distress. Make a goddamned decision for once.”

“I did when I left you.”

He scoffs out a disbelieving laugh. “What, to hop over to bench warmer Fuckface McGee to chase something to fill the void in you? I don’t even know the guy’s name, but it’s not like it matters because you’ve slept through the entire volleyball team roster. You just happened to start with me.”

You stare at him, his face twisted in annoyed anger and your own features throbbing with sick-of-his-shit disbelief. “Go to hell, Kei.”

“That was the plan. I was getting ready to head back home when you walked in.” He drops the ball in his hand, grabs his bag from the sideline, and beelines to the exit. His hand is on the door when he turns back to you. “Are you coming?”

It takes less time than usual for you to grab your own bag and fall in step behind him.

————————

Your relationship with Kei was many things. Strange, a little toxic, the longest relationship you’d ever been in, full of a deep love you didn’t quite understand.

You were recruited by your college’s volleyball team when you, as captain, took your high school volleyball team all the way to win nationals for the first and still only time in your school’s history. In every news outlet reporting on the triumph, the success was attributed to you, and you had offers from all over the nation swarm in and drown you in a decision-making process that still gives you anxiety sweats just thinking about it. At the end of the day, your goal was to make the national team, and in order to do that, you had to go to the best school with the best team that was offering you a spot, even though that college was hours away from your family and the life you had spent 18 long years building for yourself.

You packed your bags, said goodbye to your family, and moved across the country to go to school. It’s a huge, urban university, swimming with hundreds or thousands of faces you’ll never see more than once when passing on the street.

Before you even checked into your dorm, you found your way to the gym, a beautiful, state-of-the-art fancy schmancy thing. You walked in the doors, following the sound of squeaking shoes and bouncing balls, and when you walked in to see the men’s team practicing on the court, it felt just like home. A beautiful, blond boy with a baby face and triple taped fingers was up to serve, and this was the first time you met Tsukkishima.

He nearly hit you with his spike.

“Watch it!” He yelled, shooing you out of the way with a dismissive wave, and thus, it was hate at first sight between the two of you.

Your university was looking to switch things up that year, however, following a string of embarrassing losses the season before, and they decided to name freshman for their captains on both the men’s and women’s team. You found yourself with a new captain’s jacket, and unfortunately, on the men’s side, so did Tsukkishima.

The goal of the switch up was to keep the teams on their toes, get fresh ideas that hadn’t been brainwashed by years of already being on the team, and keep new talent consistently striving for better. What ended up happening was just that, but at the same time, you and Tsukki were completely isolated from the rest of the team, being rejected as the favorites who unfairly were given spots way above their league. In hindsight, you understand why your teammates hated you, but in the moment, it hurt more than you imagined it would. All you had wanted was to help them get better, and it felt like no one understood that image except for Tsukki.

It didn’t help that you saw him nearly all the time. He was always at practice, he went to every media event both of you had to be at as captains, he lived in the same dorm as you and found the same study spots you thought you had claimed in secret for yourself, he even had the same major as you. He was in your face near constantly, and the unending ribbing and competition and forced, disgruntled companionship turned hate to tolerance, tolerance to like, and like to love.

He asked you out to the spring carnival your freshman year. It shocked you how easy the word yes slipped from your lips.

And from there you two started your two year long relationship. It was easy being with Kei. Even as overbearing and sometimes rude as he was, you two existed on the same wavelength. You had the same goals, the same interests, the same emotional bursts and flairs, and the same understanding as the other snapped. You never had to explain yourself to him; after every twist and turn, he was waiting for you with open arms when you were ready, and you did the same for him.

He was the one who was there when your father unexpectedly passed towards the end of your sophomore year of college. He was the one who stayed with you for weeks, never going back to his own place so you didn’t have to ever be alone. He was the one who made the trip back home with you, silently waiting and watching as you helped with preparation because he knew what you needed the most was just his presence and not his big mouth or overbearing nature. He was the one who took over both practices when you simply couldn’t get yourself out of bed and across campus to the gym. He was the one there ready to receive you and bring you back to the world when you picked yourself up and kept going.

He was also the one who was there when you lost everything your junior year. It was during the quarter final game at a nation wide tournament in the fall of the volleyball season. You fell hard and at exactly the wrong angle, snapped your leg in three places, and tore tendons from your knee to your toes. You were taken out in a stretcher, and the minute Kei heard, he left his own team’s quarter final game to ride with you to the hospital. He didn’t even think twice.

Your team lost without you. His team won without him. It’s unclear which truth hurt more.

You were given the worst news an athlete could hear. Weeks later, he stood next to you in the gym as you wobbled in your boot and in your words and officially resigned as captain and stepped away from the team. As your dream of making the national team died, so did your will, and you found yourself in the same blurry nothingness you were in when your father passed, but this time it felt like nothing could bring you out. Even as Tsukki tried and tried and tried to reach you, it was dark and painful and drowning where you were.

You broke up with him a week before your two year anniversary.

Since then, you’ve flunked most of your classes, nearly dropped out of school, get out of bed only to go to physical therapy, watched your ex-team have an incredibly underwhelming fall season without you for your senior year, and bounced from dick to dick of every boy you have ever met. Unfortunately, that’s pretty much only the men’s volleyball team. All of this has isolated Tsukki even more from his teammates, and now he’s alone, quiet except for the angry outburst, and hated more than ever.

He was there the first night you broke into the gym in the midst of a panic attack. You had been ready to find a way to the roof of the building when you walked in, sobbing and crazed, to see Tsukki alone with a volleyball in hand.

He talked you down. You went home with him.

That’s just how it’s been ever since.

————————

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” You mutter, following him up the stairs of his apartment building as he unlocks the door and holds it open for you. You instinctively find the elevator, pressing the specific number code that calls the elevator to the first floor that you have memorized like it’s nothing.

“You don’t usually talk to the stray cats you bring home.”

“You’re such a dick.”

He just hums in response, staring away from you as the elevator door opens and you both step inside. The ride up to his apartment is quiet and cold. He leans against the wall furthest from you, scrolling though an app noncommittally with an awkward hand in his pocket. You watch him the whole way up, and he doesn’t look at you once.

You follow him out of the elevator and into his apartment. You sit on his sofa with a comfortable ease on the side that you naturally think of as your side. You watch him as he glides through the kitchen, filling up two glasses with ice and sparkling water - your favorite flavor that you forced him to start liking while you were together. You accept the glass as he hands you one and sits on the other side of the couch, a huge gap between you. You wait as he pulls his phone out again, another app on his screen.

You’re always the one to make the first move.

Setting the drink down on the table, you close the gap between you two, hesitantly pressing your side against his and leaning into him. After a reluctant moment, he wraps an arm around your shoulders, which you take as an invitation. You take the glass and the phone from his hands, place it on the coffee table, and in one fell swoop, swing your leg over his lap to straddle him.

With a soft gentle caress, you brush your fingers over his cheeks and press your forehead to his. His eyes were always your favorite, the light honey brown tint sparkled in the moonlight, and it made your stomach flutter with butterflies. He was the first one to lean up and in, tilting your head with his nose until his lips touched yours. You sit like this, softly kissing, pulling away for just small gasps and pants of air, for long enough that the automatic light in the kitchen shutters off.

Practiced and with ease, you run your hands back through his hair, pulling at the soft, fluffy strands as they thread through your fingers. He moans softly into your mouth, his own hands finding your waist and puling you closer to him. You can feel the hot rigid length in his lap, and as you slowly grind against him, he rewards you by pressing his fingertips into your lower back, his palms cupping your waist like they were made to sit there.

His eyelashes finally flutter closed, and you watch his face freeze with pleasure, his jaw locked open with your lips suctioned to his lower lip. Your own nails scratch against his scalp, and he shivers beneath your touch. It’s nearly painful the need that has built between you two when you finally slide off him and peel your pants off. He slides out of his own pants, and when he looks back at you to pull you back onto his lap, you can’t help the embarrassment at the intricate brace on your knee. You drop your hands to hide the appliance, but he bats your hand out of the way and pulls you back to straddle him again.

“You act like I’ve never seen you naked,” He whispers, his hand finding its way between your legs. His nimble, strong fingers find the absolute wet mess you’ve made, and both of your roll your eyes back in a moan as a single finger glides across your slick slit.

“I’m afraid-” You moan, cutting yourself off as he pushes the fabric of your underwear out of the way and circles your clit with his fingertip.

“Of?”

“Judgment.” You think for a second as a shiver runs down your back from the stimulation between your legs. “Rejection.”

He brings his other hand to your arm, gripping your flesh and brushing softly against your skin to bring goosebumps to the surface.

“Me? Judge?” He smiles up at you as he presses against your clit again. You moan lewdly, nearly falling forward at the shock of pleasure. “I’d never.”

You scoff out a laugh before reaching a hand to move his own underwear out of the way. His cock springs forward, bouncing softly against his stomach, as you bring your hand to between your legs to meet his. You interlock your fingers with his as they slide against you, back and forth, teasing your clit to your entrance, and you both moan loudly at the feeling. In the moonlight, you can see the glistening pre-cum on his tip, and it makes you nearly vibrate with need. Thankfully, Tsukki can read your body language like it’s his native tongue, and he guides your fingers to dip into you. Both of your hands push into you, and you groan as you settle onto your hands. Rocking your hips back and forth, you throw your head back with pleasure.

“Like a fucking angel,” He mutters, leaning forward to press his lips against your collarbones and bite. Wet pleasure drips from you onto your palm, and when it feels like enough, you pull your fingers from yourself and suddenly grip Tsukki’s needy length. Your wetness and his pre-cum mix to make it slick and easy for your hand to stroke up and down. His body freezes in response, all of his muscles twitching with every pass of your hand.

His fingers curl deep inside you, and with each of your strokes, your rock your hips against his fingers. He’s deep enough inside you that he presses into that sweet spot, and his fingers find it with familiar ease every time you shift your hips.

“Kiss me,” You whisper into the night, and he shakes himself free enough for his lips to find yours. Your tongues press against each other, your hot breath billowing down each other’s necks, and each other’s hands milking pleasure out of your body. He tastes like knowing each other’s bodies like the back of your own hands.

You could’ve finished like this, in each other’s hands, if it wasn’t for the sudden shooting pain that radiates from your knee where you are kneeling in his lap. You flinch, taking the weight off it, and Tsukki supports you by grabbing your other hip with his free hand.

“Are you okay?”

“My leg,” You grunt out, moving your hands to grip the back of the couch as the pain fires even worse through your whole leg. He rubs at your hip, staring up at you to gauge your pain on your face, and when he sees you bite your lip and furrow your brow, he picks you up off his lap and deposits you on your back on the couch. Having your weight off your knee lightens the pain, and soon he has your brace off your leg and is massaging your joint with his hands.

He learned how to when you first hurt your leg, and he’s so comfortable that it feels second nature for him. It feels absolutely humiliating for you.

“Please stop,” You whisper, letting your leg fall, your foot hitting the floor, and you take his collar and pull his shirt over his head. Your nails gently drag against his chest, and he leans forward, catching himself by landing his hands on either side of your head.

“Does it hurt?”

You groan at the question, shimmying enough out of your shirt and bra that your chest was on display for Tsukki, but he maintains concerned eye contact with you.

“I just want you to fuck me like you did before,” You whisper, shifting your hips closer to his still protruding length.

He studies your face for a long time, but the desire in his chest must have won out, because he’s finally shirking off his boxers and settling himself between your thighs. He kisses you a few more times, soft and measured, before his tip presses against your entrance, and he sinks deep into you, bottoming out in your wet, hot, squishy insides.

You arch your back at the feeling of being so full of him, and his head drops to your neck, teeth grazing and sucking at the skin, and your arms wrap around his back to grip him as the feeling overwhelms you. Your stomach flops, and your brain swims. You drown in the smell of him, his cologne, his shampoo, his sweat and musk, and it smells, it feels, it overwhelms like home.

His thrusts into you feel deeper with each rock of his hips, and it sends shocks of nearly painful pleasure from your head to your toes. He’s groaning in your ear, and it’s a sweet song you miss like a lullaby you desperately want to remember when you’re lying alone in your own room at your own apartment. When his fingers find and tease your clit again, he moves in just the way you like that makes your toes curl, and that feels like the last straw.

Tears well in your eyes and drip down the sides of your face. With a sniffle, Tsukki finally brings his eyes back to your face, and when he sees your tears, he sighs softly with care. He shifts to his knees, pulling you just barely onto his lap, and he wraps his arms all the way around your body, his fingers gripping behind and around your shoulders so that your bodies are fully pressed against each other.

He shushes you softly in your ear. “I got you,” He whispers, squeezing his fingers into your skin, “I got you.”

His kindness makes the pain in your chest worst. “Please don’t stop,” You nearly sob, dropping your head into the crook of his neck. “Please keep going.”

Tsukki hesitates, but your begs and the needy rocking of your hips convinces him to slowly continue fucking into you. “I hate seeing you like this.”

“Then fuck it out of me, Kei,” You writhe against him, and after the internal struggle behind his eyes, he lays you on your back, grabs the back of your good leg, grips the arm of the couch behind you, and pounds his cock deep into you. It’s so sudden that it makes your eyes roll to the back of your head. You choke on your tongue, nails digging into any flesh on Tsukki’s body that you can find. “Oh God, yes, fuck,” You groan into his ear.

“You feel so good,” He grunts back, placing his hand on your cheek and your thumb on your lips. With tears still falling down the side of your face, you suck his thumb into our mouth and tongue against the skin.

“S-so deep,” You hiccup out as he lays into you, his cock pumping in and out. Your hand snakes down between the two of you, and you rub against your clit. You clench against his cock, and both of you moan out sweetly at the feeling.

“I got you," He mumbles again, bringing his forehead to yours to keep eye contact. "Can you cum for me, baby?” He asks, and you shiver at his words, moving your fingers faster and harder to get to where you want. You nod, your hair sticking to your face in the tears. He groans, his hips starting to stutter. “Then cum, baby, cum.”

You pant and groan and whimper and suddenly you’re cumming around his cock, your body short-circuiting with the feeling of your orgasm. For these few moments, nothing in your body hurts. The physical pain, the emotional pain, it’s silenced in the pleasurable waves rolling through your body. You arch your back and press your body against Tsukki, his warm pants and moans stinging your skin with electricity.

Even though you wrap your good leg around Tsukki’s waist, like you would when you were together, he pulls out and finishes across your stomach and chest. He strokes himself through it, the sweat glistening on his forehead in the moonlight as his cum paints your skin. You close your eyes, letting the sticky wet feeling cover you.

It takes a few moments of panting before he falls back to a seated position on the couch. You can feel the aching pain return to your knee, and before you grab anything to wipe yourself clean, you reach down for your brace.

“Let me help you,” He sounds vaguely annoyed with the whole thing, but his fingers are still gentle as they pull the brace on and into position.

“Thank you.” Your voice is small, the tears finally slowing. You rub your hands down your face, and then you search for something to clean yourself off with. Tsukki throws you his shirt, not even glancing your way.

“I hate it when you cry on me like that.”

“I thought you liked my misery.”

“Only when I’m causing it.” His smirk is half-hearted. He folds his leg underneath him, his other leg bending for him to place his chin on as he stared out the window.

You reach for your drink on the coffee table as you wipe away the leftover Tsukki on your body. You find your sweatshirt on the ground and throw it over your head, and now you two are sitting on opposite ends of the couch, just like before with just a few less clothes.

“Why do you do this for me if you don’t even like me?” You ask in a small voice, taking a sip of the drink in your hand, and he finally turns to look at you. His face shocked in disbelief.

“If I don’t even like you? Are you dense? I’m in love with you. I’m so madly in love with you that it hurts me every single day. You’re the one who broke up with me, so I should be asking you that question. Why do you come to me?”

Because you know he’ll understand you. You know you’ll be seen. You know he cares about you. You’d never actually answer that, though, because it’ll make you seem the callous bitch that he’s supposed to be.

“I don’t do it on purpose. You’re always in the gym.” The answer feels incomplete. “I like you, Kei.”

He watches your face as you refuse to meet his eyes. It takes a while before he stands, the hot anger radiating off of him, and he cleans up the space piece by piece. When he takes your empty glass to the sink he finally speaks.

“If we liked each other, we wouldn’t keep doing this.”

You watch him move from the kitchen to his bedroom door, but he hesitates before leaving you to the silence and darkness of his living room. He sighs, annoyed. “Are you staying the night.”

“I shouldn’t,” You spit back quickly, but you don’t get up to leave, and he doesn’t disappear to his bedroom. You two stare at each other for a long time, much too long. Finally he opens the door.

“Your pajamas are in the second drawer of my dresser,” then he squints his eyes at you, “but you should shower first. My sheets are clean.”

He disappears, leaving the door open behind him.

It takes you less time than usual to follow him in.

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