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chrollohearttags · 19 days ago

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𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜 | 𝚎. 𝚓𝚊𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚛

studying has been taking up a lot of your time (and mental energy) as of late. Your boyfriend has just the plan to shut your brain off for the night.

black nurse!reader (fem descriptors), eren is a nursing student (a few years younger than reader also) fingering, neck kissing, choking, facefucking, rough-ish sex, squirting, missionary, slightly aggressive rennie 🫠, daddy is used once, nipple play, calls reader slut, spit play, fingers in mouth, creampie, multiple orgasms

word count: 5.3K

🎙️: some of y’all might remember this AU from Wattpad and I��m officially restarting it bc my muse for the others are shot right now. If you’re not familiar with it, I apologize in advance bc I promise it’s not this smutty and juicy in the slightest ☠️ I’m just in a mood. Also, this is my first fic in almost two months, please be nice or I’ll cry!

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“You know you play too fucking much, right?”

“Mmmm..nah, I don’t think I’ve played enough. Look at you. All tense and shit.”

if there was one word in the entire English language that you could use to describe your mood at the moment, it’d most certainly be irritable. To the highest degree..and granted, that could have been chocked up to the fact that you hadn’t eaten in hours, you’d been staring at textbooks and computer screens since four in the afternoon and your phone screen read nine thirty..and to really add the proverbial icing atop the cake, this annoying ass man would not leave you alone! Here it was only a week away from your BSN final; two from his N-CLEX exam and here he was bullshitting as per usual. It was how he approached most things in life, his mantra if you will. No need to stress, what’s meant to be will happen.

too bad, you couldn’t take on those sorts of ideologies when so much was at stake! Not when the results of these tests would determine your future as an RN and instructor, and his career as a nurse in general. You’d met Eren Jaeger almost three years ago when he was merely a patient at the office you worked for during your initial internship..earning clinical hours and experience in the field. He was most certainly the liveliest one you’d seen in Dr. Smith’s office and there was never an appointment where you didn’t leave in stitches because he’d made you laugh so hard. However, you pegged him as the rich kid, the son of a doctor with no ambition or common sense...always looking to make a joke out of everything.

so imagine your surprise when you were tasked with not only supervising an entire floor but the local nursing school recruits as well and the first person to come traipsing through those heavy double doors was him! And even more so, in six months time, he’d have you wooed and swept off your feet. That same charm and wit that had you cackling during his appointments were the same ones that made you nearly spit your drink out when you were on a date and eased serious tension among your staff after a rough night on the floor. Just being in his presence brought you immense comfort. However, at the moment…

“Look, Eren. I’m busy, find sum’ else to do, for real.”

you weren’t in the mood for any of it! This exam had been causing you immense stress and it seemed that no matter how hard you studied, retaining information was impossible. Nothing stuck and you were at your wits end..certainly not in the mood for childish antics.

”I’m trying but you don’t want to stop—“

“Maybe because everything isn’t a goddamn joke to me.”

Eren could see the frustration, hence why he had come up behind you, in a half assed attempt to make you scared and somehow wound up groping your chest in the process. Admittedly, he’d never seen you act like this..never even so much as raise your voice at him and here you were, lashing out. Part of him understood your feelings. He knew how important this was and although he wasn’t showing it, he was equally as nervous for his own test. But regardless, nothing was going to change tonight and especially by sitting here irate and snappy. The only thing he wanted to do was shut his brain off and wanted his beloved (y/n) to follow suit..and he was willing to make it happen by any means!

“Eren, what did I just say—“

one thing that he had learned since being together was that once your mind was resigned to something..there was no changing it. So rather than spend time arguing with you, he had another solution!

“..I heard you, I don’t give a fuck about all that right now…’just trying to help..”

“You’re trying to help me by fucking me? Righttt.”

“Yes, I think it’s a very helpful tool for relieving stress. Seen that somewhere in my text book or sum’..”

“Mmm, I think me and you were studying different materials..but sure, why not.”

seconds later, his hand was snaking around your upper body, clutching your throat with the other steadily pulling the chair back and his lips marking your neck with soft kisses. He was adamant in making sure that you got proper rest and a distraction. What better way to do so than to wear you down? Eventually, you’d find those large hands of his snaking around to the front, making home back on your plump breasts..soft, voluptuous and perky as they sat up in your tank top. He could see you visibly enjoying this little tease, indicative by the way your muscles relaxed. He’d continue to massage them until your legs almost instinctively parted.

That’s when, before you even had time to react, he’d spin you around to face him. His grasp still firm around your throat as he moved in for a kiss. Your tongues collided in a steamy clash; smacking against one another as you attempted to catch your breath. But he wasn’t leaving you much room to do so, less known, attest him right now.

“Exactly..now keep those legs spread and don’t move.”

the command was so absolute and matter of fact, it damn near caught you off guard! He’d never spoken to you in such a manner. It was always so playful, jovial and even a bit needy during times like this. But alas, you’d awoken this side of him and you were going to have a hell of a time ‘calming’ him down. Even so, you’d follow his order just this once and part those thick thighs until that plump center, sheathed by the smallest pair of shorts he’d ever seen. Your physique truly was something special…thick in all of the correct areas with stretch marks and a semi-pudgy tummy to match. Your belly ring dangled from the gentle force of him maneuvering you around.

“Eren..I—“

“Whatever you’re about to say, save it…you don’t always have to handle shit alone. I got you..just let me help, okay? I promise, you can trust me..”

he was aware of your past..how mean and cruel previous partners had been so he was very careful in how he approached you. He understood all too well that being overly aggressive would only prove to make you anxious or even shut down entirely. His intention was never to make you uncomfortable. Even so, he wanted to see you give yourself to him fully…trust that he would do right by you and not take advantage of the precious gift that was your love.

he would take great care of you to not only relax but feel pleasure like you’d never experienced it. Although you seemed a bit reluctant, you were ready for whatever he was going to toss your way! Assuring him that you were all his for the taking..

“Fineee…I trust you..”

without a moment of hesitation, he’d detach from your own mouth and move down your neck. Whilst those tits remained exposed, he’d prompt you to give each of those nipples a light squeeze in his place. Meanwhile, his own hands were busy gliding into your underwear, trying to locate that aching bud. That long, tattooed forearm gliding down the center of your torso as a result. It would also serve as a semblance of comfort when he inevitably brought you to ecstasy..

“Mmm..there we go, baby..fuck, you’re so wet already.”

“That’s because you were grabbing on my neck..”

“Oh you like that, huh? I’ll keep it in mind..”

you wouldn’t know it but when you first began dating Eren, he was completely inexperienced. Although he wore his confidence like a lapel pin, he was incredibly timid, shy and nervous when it came to intimacy. The first time you two actually had sex, he lasted all of three minutes before he forced himself to pull out and splatter you with a heavy load. Left a trembling mess, his entire face turned beet red as he just glared at you. He was certain you were going to leave him right then and there; flustered and apologetic, he’d try to make up an excuse as to why he couldn’t satisfy you to your full potential. However, you thought it was adorable! He’d worked up all of his courage to give you a night filled with pleasure and even though it didn’t pan out quite the way he imagined, he had made a complete turnaround since that night and had done good to broaden his sexual horizons. You grew together; learning one another’s ticks and desires, which he knew each of yours to a science. So much so, you practically melted within his grasp and wanted to see just how far he’d take it!

“Open your mouth f’r me, princess…” prompting you as he causally glided those fingers across your tongue. Your gorgeous brown eyes fixated on him in a lustful gaze..by this time, you’d come to completely face him with that tall, lanky frame hovering above. You were all but level with that rising tent within his sweats. Meanwhile, his opposite set of digits were good and preoccupied with your juicy cunt; tightening around the base of the knuckles and then releasing once he’d use the thumb to stroke your swollen clit. Such an awkward position to be in at the moment but it was well worth it for the amount of pleasure both of you were about to receive. Finally retracting the ones in your mouth, Eren would leave you with a trail of drool seeping down your lips and chest in the process. Looking fucked out and starved already without so much as even a single thrust yet..that was the type of desperation and submission he wanted to see from you..

“ ‘ren…lemme suck on that dick..”

although he was trying to maintain control, who was he to deny your very blunt request? After all, he knew if you were dripping now, this would inevitably have you overflowing. Just as the first hand did, he’d slowly withdraw from those tight folds and allow you to clean up the remnants before tugging at that elastic waistband. “oh shit..I knew you’d come around. Here, baby..”

suddenly, you’d feel that same grasp on the back of your head, tugging you forward so that he could align himself with the rim of those pretty lips. The softness brushing against the tip as he rubbed them around…teasing you. “There you go..kiss it—stick your tongue out..that’s it..” from there, (y/n) needed no further instruction. Without the guidance of your own hands, you’d take his entire tip into your mouth and begin to suckle. Suctioning in, enclosing the silkiness of those jaws around his cock. “Fuck..you don’t need me to tell you anything..just make me feel good, princess..like you always do—“

he was well aware of how deviant you truly could become when the need arised. From outside appearances, you always looked so poised and proper..never getting out of character and to some, you’d even come off as ‘boujie’. However, Eren got to see the multitude of your complex layers; dispelling the notion that you were dull or boring. Including this one..the very promiscuous side that would do whatever it took to get hers and make him climax too! When it came to the bedroom, you were adamant and steadfast in what you wanted and he had no issue fulfilling those requests. Eventually, you’d take another couple of inches before establishing a rhythm. It didn’t take long for the very audible sounds of slurping and gagging to emit as a result. You’d gaze up to see Eren’s head resting back on his shoulder blades; groans spilling out in a whiny huff as a result of it all. You could be rather relentless when it came to pleasuring him but he didn’t mind it one single bit, of course!

“Oh my—shit, baby. You take me so good..fucking your own face like that. I love it..”

those words only served as further encouragement and inevitably prompted you to cradle his balls in addition, knowing how sensitive they were. Giving them a light squeeze, you’d continue forcing his shaft between your jaws; the sloppy wet strings of drool pooling down your chest serving as a testament to how much you were enjoying yourself. Where limits should have existed, there were none and it wasn’t long before he’d find himself buried to the hilt of your throat with your forehead scraping his pelvis. With that salacious gaze fixated on him, Eren had to all but restrain himself from forcing a load down your esophagus. But to be fair, this was the outcome he desired so badly and kept pestering you for.

“F—fuck! You’re not playing fair, baby.. ‘gonna make me come if you don’t stop..”

that deep tone with breathy whimpers cried out as he struggled to maintain his composure. However, you weren’t interested in letting up when he so rudely disturbed your study session. He was going to pay for breaking your focus! In a quick slight of hand, you’d shift his member into your palm and his sack in between your lips. Making slow jerking motions until you’d lean back up and coat both with exorbitant amounts of saliva. Seeing how filthy and unabashed you had become for him was causing Eren to lose his mind. Sometimes, he felt as though he couldn’t keep up with you and this was one of those moments. Although this little sexual escapade was his idea, you’d seem to have taken full, unequivocal control of the situation.

“That’s exactly what I want…”

“Then gag yourself on this dick, baby..let that stress out.”

that look in your eyes screaming for him to give you every ounce of his creamy nut…wanting to swallow every drop. Eventually, you’d begin to writhe around against the desk chair, attempting to create friction and stimulation for your clit. Your nipples had once again become extremely hard and the slightest brush was driving you crazy. Eren had heard your response loud and clear, which led him to sandwiching your head between those same fingers that had once curled up inside of you. He’d prompt you to take his cock back into your mouth so that he could work out all of that cum of his own accord.

the pace mirrored that of heavy, rough strokes..ones you’d get to experience soon enough. Gag spit along with loud moans poured out as a result of his brutal pounding but you welcomed the sensation..even increasing it by reaching down and fingering yourself in his place. “..yeah, play with your pussy, baby..” It wasn’t even a full five minutes before you noticed his stride beginning to break and his toned legs trembling. The last couple movements were off kilter and choppy but soon, you’d have your reward in the form of his seed. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, damn—‘coming—“

in that very moment, (y/n) would find yourself held in place by the tight grasp of his palms as he allowed that thick cock to pulsate in the back of your throat. The warm fluid filled your oral cavity until he could muster another drop. The entire time, his loud groaning was permeating the room as well. Once he was able to regain his senses, Eren would slowly withdraw and examine the aftermath. That towering six foot something frame would take a step back to truly take in the beautiful sight in front of him. You were drenched from the neck to your belly button in silky fluids…that wrung out tank top sat idly underneath your breasts and those shorts were halfway around your thighs at this point. To say he’d make an absolute wreck of you would be an understatement.

“Lemme look at you…”

proudly displaying his work of ‘art’, you’d cup those saliva laden tits and squeeze them together with your tongue dangling. By the look on your face, something told him that you were more than happy he’d interrupted you! “Yeah..that’s how you should look. Happy as fuck.” Shoving his thumb between your puckered lips, he’d then bend down to shove his tongue into your mouth for a sloppy peck.

but something also told him that you couldn’t be satisfied with merely sucking him off. You needed—no, you deserved more.

“Are we done? If so, imma be disappointed.”

“Of course not, baby..I got you.”

Regardless of how lightheaded that orgasm had made him, he leaned forward and took you into his grasp. Hoisting you up in one fell swoop to carry you to the bed that was a mere ten feet away. Once he had you flat against the mattress, he’d make haste in disrobing you of those clothes to render you completely naked. He’d follow suit and tug his sweats until they reached his ankles so he could kick them off. Once the two of you were left with only your bare flesh, Eren wasted no time in pinning both your wrists and ankles behind your head. But not before propping your head up with a pillow. A position that led to excitement riddling your face. From this angle, you could watch it go in and out together. With you exactly where he wanted, your boyfriend began the descent down your torso to that plump center. Those fat lips drenched in slick whilst that aching bud protruded between them. He knew you were already overly sensitive so he didn’t want to keep you waiting for much longer but the selfish glutton in him just had to have a taste of that divine nectar.

“Just be patient with me..’need to make sure you’re good and ready first..”

immediately, your eyes would roll to the back of your skull and a nervous giggle arose as well. Make no mistake, he allowed you to have your fun but it was his turn to take control now. Delving headfirst between your thighs, Eren began his quick descent onto that swollen pearl and lapped around it. You’d immediately grasp at the sheets, eyes trailing to the back of your skull as those feet dangled in the air. He’d keep you at bay with a hand clutched around your throat as he continued exploring those folds with his tongue. For a split second, his head would raise to make eye contact with you.

“Fuck..you really needed this, huh? You’re already starting to come..” alluding to the fact that your juices were spurting out as he scooped his tongue inside of your hole and rubbed that sensitive clit. It seemed his skills grew better and better each time you two had sex. He was far more attune to your needs and desires, even more aware of them than you were sometimes.

“Y-yeah!..how’d you learn to do that?” “What can I say? I got a hell of a teacher...” tossing you a wink and a smirk because you truly did turn him out when it came to the bedroom. He’d continue lapping and tracing his tongue intricately throughout your folds until he received the beautiful payout of you squirting all over his face. Try as you might to harbor restraint, it was to no avail and of no use…that tight entrance would spasm before more would spill forth. Just to increase that pleasure, Eren added a finger in hopes of coaxing more out.

“Give me that cum, baby..that’s it. Make a fucking mess for me..” and you certainly didn’t disappoint. The shower of sweet juices continued for another minute or so before you’d lie there, spent and breathless from such an amazing orgasm. Once he’d gotten his fill, your boyfriend would return to the surface for air and to get a good look at your current state. “You taste so good..love making you squirt in my fucking face..” Breaking into a sadistic chuckle, he’d readjust so that his palms were stationed firmly on the backs of your thighs and that he was centered right between them..in that moment, he’d slide his throbbing member across the sensitive core and tease it for a moment. But you couldn’t handle that at the moment.

“Eren, please don’t play..I need you so fucking bad right now..”

nearly in tears from the pending overstimulation and the overwhelming need to be stuffed full of his cock. Your walls would ache and spasm in anticipation; so much so, he’d watch you reach for his hips to guide him in. But naturally, nothing with this man came completely easy…he had to mess with you a bit for all of the resistance earlier. Just as you went to grab him, he’d pin those wrists back in one fell swoop with one hand and use the other to press into your stomach.

“I know you do…that’s why you’re gonna beg me for it.” Immediately being met with a look of shock and a bit of infuriation. Even so, you’d remain there, lying in wait until he got what he wanted.

“I mean, you were being all fussy earlier..I’m not convinced you really deserve it..c'mon, princess…change my mind.” he was so assured of himself and honestly, you were in no position to attest. The desire grew stronger with every passing moment and if he didn’t deliver soon, you were bound to implode. “Fuuuck, Eren! Please—“ “That’s better but not quite..tell me how badly you need me to fuck you.” Besides, when he hovered above you like this, looking so fucking attractive and domineering, you felt no other choice but to submit. So setting your pride aside, (y/n) began to grovel..whimpering and bucking your hips to meet the friction of his shaft rubbing against your wet folds. You’d tell him how good he made you feel and that your body was his for the taking, unequivocally. Finally, that submission and trust he had craved..best believe, he was going to take care not to break it. After your speech, he’d seem content and proceeded to tap the head of that appendage against you before gripping the base and making one full glide across the outside and shoving it inside. Sucking his teeth and moaning as he made place between that flesh.

“Oh fuck…that’s it, gorgeous. Right there..”

you’d release a whimper of your own as you became acclimated to that thick shape. You’d clench around him once before releasing and he knew he couldn’t sit idle for long. With haste, he’d begin slamming his hips forward, quickly trying to establish some semblance of a rhythm so that he didn’t blow his load too quickly. Upon being immersed in that juicy cunt, he’d find his knees buckling from the sensation.

“..pussy’s so fucking tight..and warm..oh God, I love you so much..” his whiny yet deep moans complimented by the sounds of smacking flesh. With your hands now planted firmly on your asscheeks, per his instructions, you’d keep it spread open so that he had ample room to give you both the satisfaction you both desired. Suddenly, his strokes would increase in speed and depth; really stretching you out. Jolting that body around as those perky tits bounced from the force. “Fuck!… babyyyy…” “I know, baby. I know..you just look so pretty when I’m digging you out. I can’t help but fuck you this hard.” Cooing to you as he bent down to plant soft kisses along your forehead. You’d cry out, maneuvering your hands to his back, digging your nails into it..you’d never felt pleasure like this with anyone else. The way he made love to you was incomparable. Even when you fought against it, he knew your body’s needs and wanted more than anything to satisfy them.

“That’s right, princess..let me fuck that stress out of you..let that mind go blank. Just focus on taking this dick.” Whispering in your ear as you held him close.

eventually, your legs would coil around his waist and your eyes would trail to the back of your skull in a haze of sheer ecstasy. You didn’t know what to do with yourself..all except fall apart underneath him. Your body was a bundle of tight nerves, bound together by the building ecstasy and you were bound to explode any minute. Unfortunately for you, he wasn’t done teasing quite yet..instead, he had one more move he just had to try in hopes of sending you over the edge.

“Eyes on me, baby..yeah, I need to see that pretty face right now.”

garnering a smile as he leaned back up and maneuvered his arms to fall into the center of your torso. Suddenly, you’d feel a slight pinch of your nipples before he began to rub them slowly. Tracing tiny circles as he continued to pound into you relentlessly. It was very apparent you couldn’t handle it by the way that cunt twitched around his shaft..you were bound to explode at any moment. Mouthing off about how good it feels as he made alternating motions on those sensitive buds; rolling them between his fingertips, squeezing and even leaning down to suckle them for a brief moment. The sensation lasted for a few minutes before he’d return his attention back to ensuring you got your well deserved orgasm. This time, with a bit more aggression because he recalled how excited you’d gotten when he grasped your throat.

“Oh my God…fuck! ‘m gonna come—“

“Then do it..come f’r me, slut..give me what I want.”

the name sending you into an absolute spiral as he never spoke that way on a regular basis and would never think to disrespect you. But this was exactly what you craved. To be used and made devoid of all feelings except pleasure. Suddenly, you’d feel his fingertips squeezing your jaws as he increased his speed yet again..this time, feeding you the deepest, longest strokes he could muster. The two of you would spout off filthy, steamy remarks at one another through gritted teeth, intense glares and breathy moans as you reached down to aid him by stroking your aching bud.

“ ‘m so fucking close, baby. I don’t think I can hold it..”

“Fuck yes you are..that pussy’s gripping me so tight right now..goddamn.”

Eventually, those thrusts became rather sporadic and Eren was rapidly losing both his composure and stamina. The both of you were so near your peaks that it was only a matter of time before you exploded. You’d try to outlast him but as he maintained that clutch on your jaw, he’d lean down to spit into your mouth, letting that trail drip down onto your tongue as you stuck it out. He knew what was coming and he couldn’t be vexed to continue anticipating it so your boyfriend decided to assist with a little extra lubrication.

“Get yourself off..I’m not fucking waiting..” Without hesitation, (y/n) scooped that saliva out your mouth and onto your fingertips to massage that clit once more. You were rubbing so fast, your head began to grow fuzzy and soon, nothing but an image of static and blackness would fill your vision as you released all over him; voiding yourself of all those warm, sweet sticky juices as they sprayed his abdomen. Right above the incisions from some prior operations..he wore it as a badge of honor quite frankly. That a woman who once took care of him, was now having all of her wants and needs fulfilled. His cock sat idly inside of you until that stream became too powerful and all but pushed him out. That’s when he’d simply grasp the base of his throbbing member and tap against your slit.

“Shit! Oh my gosh..”

“Ahhh..fuck. That’s it..I knew if I got in it deep enough, you’d squirt for me again, baby. That’s my girl..”

“Fuuuck, it feels so good!”

You’d continue spraying until you convulsed uncontrollably. He was still in awe of the mess you’d made but there was still the task of releasing his own. Although he loved the sight of you in such a vulnerable state, he couldn’t let up. Grasping your hips once more, he’d tug you down onto it and continue drilling you with his cock. This time, to relieve himself.

“Hold still, I’m not yet…need to..come inside of you..”

clutching the backs of your thighs, Eren relentlessly shoved that thick cock back inside of you, pumping sporadically until he felt his own legs begin to quiver. It wouldn’t be long before his stride broke so he’d bend down to grant you one last kiss and sweet nothing. Cradling the side of your head into his palms in an intimate manner. With baited, sporadic breath and whiny cries, he’d pour his soul out to you. Becoming almost obiedient and subservient himself.

“I love you! fuck…I love you so much...”

“I love you too..”

“Am I making you feel good? Did I do a good job? Can I come inside of you..please, baby. Can I?”

and without hesitation, you’d nod your head profusely and grant him his wish. But not without sending him spiraling with your last statement.

“Yes, please! Come in this pussy, daddy..I need it.” And from that moment on, Eren fell to pieces. Collapsing his entire body weight onto your own as your legs coiled around his waist, ensuring he couldn’t pull out even if he wanted. His final thrust came in a sharp, forceful thud before he’d begin to pulsate and eventually, release every last drop of remaining semen he had to offer. Emptying his balls inside of you shamelessly. Already spent from his earlier orgasm, he’d let out an ear curdling grunt, allowing you to claw into his back because he knew he’d lost all semblance of control and had probably been a bit rough. However, none of that mattered..you both were utterly satisfied and it was apparent by the puddle of tears streaming down each of your faces. Never had either of you experienced lovemaking so powerful that it reduced you to literal tears.

eventually, he’d finish pumping the remnants into you and soon, find the strength to pull out. Once he was able to gather his own bearings, he’d turn his attention to you.

“Are you okay, princess? I'm gonna go grab you some water and a towel real quick—“

even insisting he’d help you to the bathroom afterwards to avoid an infection and get cleaned up properly. However, he was shocked to find that his words were falling completely on deaf ears! That’s when he’d turn around to see you sound asleep..completely knocked from the events that just transpired. All he could do was laugh to himself not only out of pure pride but the fact that you truly needed this reset. Although he admired and looked up to your hard work ethic, even the most brilliant of brains needed rest. Those test materials, patients and everything else would be there when you awoke..but for now, you could focus on yourself!

taglist: idenwhims @blaxcunicorn @valentineluvu @cocoacunt @charminstasia @star0bsessi0n @mrsackermanfeed @aquabby21

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madamecaos · 6 months ago

Text

Crush (ing)

Summary: Where Ghost goes a little too rough on you in training then makes up for it.

5k+ ish words │ Ghost (Simon Riley) x Y/N

A/N: Angst with a smutty happy ending. Times are weird now, so I'm back to writing again. You know the drill, no proofread found here

-----

Part 1

It was merely a crush, you realized. It must be. Otherwise, you would have to not have sex again with Simon.

Because there was no way in hell a man like that would let himself be roped in into a relationship, and a relationship with you at that. You were sure he hated you, going by his nonchalant treatment when he wasn’t in your bed.

There, another example. You haven’t even been to his room, which going by his arrogant attitude must be annoyingly spotless.

You hated him, or at least you wished that saying it would make it better for your sanity. Because this was Simon.

The first time you slept together happened in France, and it was not gentle. Well, you didn’t really expect any special treatment as a lover, but it wasn’t exactly a tender moment, more of a “blowing some steam” sort of thing. A ‘high-school make out session’ sort of a thing, or so you repeated in your head whenever his name came up in conversation.

It’s not to say that it wasn’t enjoyable, but only a representation of the tone of your weird situationship. And you were fully sure that this was Johnny’s fault somehow.

��But he likes you, lass. That’s why he’s a pain.” He said, as if there was no doubt about it.

You scoffed at that. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Your aching shoulder, after sparring got out hand, made you believe otherwise.

Now, Johnny said something about hanging out for drinks with some locals. The mission in Serbia took a pause on the wait for new intel, so as consequence your unit had a free week out of uniform. This meant more time with your team outside of work, and that meant that you and Ghost were at each other’s throats. Mostly you since his sunken eyes behind the sockets of his skullmask barely moved when you made jabs at him.

Then he stared and stared, a blank look threatening you into a near sycosis. Why couldn’t he just be normal and answer without underestimating you?

And one night there was a local event, promising alcohol and a good time. It was dark already, but the people there were lively, enjoying food and from far away, you could hear music and dancing. You couldn’t wait to try and merge with the crowd, maybe flirt a little with a cute local. And you thought you looked lovely, really good going by the way some of the soldiers ogled you. It must be due to you being one of the only females in the base, but it wasn’t harming your ego.

Johnny whistled when you met at the entrance, drawing attention to you in civilian clothes. You think they hadn’t seen you off your gear yet, and it must be shocking to see you in a normal long maxi skirt mapping the curves of your hips, a dark top and a fashionable coat, just as dark of course. You looked like a killer with your dark makeup and hair down for the first time in a while, sparkling earrings catching in moonlight.

“Little lady, are ya lost?” He whistled again, making you hurry your pace to shut him up. There was a diminutive pause with hesitation at seeing Ghost in the driver seat after Johnny moved away from the window.

He looked at you, eyes trailing leisurely from your toes to your eyes. You wiggled your white-painted toes in your wedges at the pinning stare. It was a pain smuggling nail polish in missions, but his ongoing stare made it worth it. They might not be up to code, but you didn’t really care. He blinked slowly as his fingers lightly rapped against the steering wheel in what you thought to be annoyance.

“Are ya coming?” The brute asked, still bitter by your word ping-pong match in Price’s office. You certainly had won because you believed yourself capable of acting as a secret spy inside a mob dead set on selling plutonium as a business. Yeah, they were a little out of their heads, but really talented at hiding, so here you were, stuck in Serbia. Ghost clearly thought you weren’t good enough of a liar to gather intelligence, or so he implied, but you knew it was because he didn’t believe you weren’t good enough overall.

Your past scuffles where Ghost was the opponent, pinning you down on the mat, were proof enough. This was the military, you weren’t allowed to make it personal, but when he bested you and made sure to show you your faults with overtraining you… His strict treatment with you hadn’t gone unnoticed by others and, well, let’s say that you weren’t feeling rational about it.

To your annoyance he got out of the car, and for a second you expected him to fight you again, maybe prevent you from getting into the backseat with brute force. Would he say that you weren’t allowed to drink or have fun? Would your mistakes make him order you back to the gym instead of a night of fun?

None of the scenarios circulating in your head happened. Instead, he leaned sideways and opened the door. You stood still as he waited at your gaping. Then, obviating your embarrassment, you closed your mouth and got in at the rise of an eyebrow behind his mask. None of you mentioned anything at his action, one that you found odd. Maybe he did it as a power move? Or maybe he did it only for the shock factor to keep you on your toes?

Sitting at the back, immersing yourself in your distrust, you kept making eye contact with Ghost through the rearview mirror. Not on purpose, but he did nothing to turn his eyes away, only to drive, and sometimes you swore he couldn’t keep his eyes off you.

But you kept fighting with facts versus what you wanted. Did you want him to seek you, look at you and only you? Your last argument kept circulating in your thoughts. Whenever he looked at you, pain followed.

So, he steered the rented car in silence, Johnny making conversation with himself. Ghost found parking nearby inside the city, near the pubs, and yet the car was left hidden in another block. Yeah right… it was the car that would draw attention, not the hulk-of-a-man wearing a balaclava in public.

And it was sort of inevitable the way your gaze would keep drawing back to the blonde near-white lashes free of dark paint or the sharpness of his jawline as he rumbled out another one of his jokes to Johnny. The lack of skull mask allowed you to obsess, no, notice the details. Yes, notice.

And he still had a balaclava. You felt like you were going insane in your ruminating and in your shame for sleeping with someone that didn’t find you worthy enough to show their face.

The guys flocked around you as you headed into the first club with music you could understand.

After a while, you realized you shouldn’t have dared to defy a Scotsman in a drinking game. Johnny was fully sober and you were giggly at your third drink. You were drawn to the dance floor and the bar behind it, or at least a moment for yourself. A fourth drink didn’t sound so bad, you mused as you planned how to get out of the booth. You were fidgeting in the middle, Johnny on one side, Ghost on the other. Gaz was supposedly on his way, something about needing more time to get dressed. As if. He probably knew this night would be boring and would never arrive.

“Excuse me, scoot” you said, nodding at Johnny to move so you could get out. He huffed and practically ignored you with a teasing grin as he kept ‘scoping the perimeter’ or whatever that meant. “Johnny, let me out. I have to pee.”

“So? If you leave, who’ll be my wingwoman?”

“Certainly not me. Ghost?”

“Not moving.”

You looked at the two, noticing that Johnny was leaning forward on the table, and Ghost wasn’t. Hoping that the shock factor would stave away the complaints, you swung your leg over Ghost’s hips, landing on your knee at his side. The skirt rode up to your knees as you stared him down, stumbling at your sloshed state. You expected to climb away quickly, but before you could escape into the booming music, solid hands tightened themselves over your hips. You swayed as you lost your momentum, hitting your lower back on the edge of the table, empty glasses clinking.

You hissed at the pain, the bruises on your back tender from yesterday’s training stung as your hands grasped his shoulders for stability. One of his palms quickly spread on your lower back, preventing more accidents. Your lips clamped at the pain. His head was almost at your height, despite you being over him, a few inches up on your knees, spread over his thighs.

Dark eyes stared at you through his mask, but you could clearly make out a risen eyebrow in amusement. That little shit always found a way to get a rise out of you.

“Easy, doll. You should’ve just asked,” he rumbled lowly, barely heard through the music.

“Woah,” Soap added to your embarrassment.

“None of you would move, now let me off,” you didn’t wait for his permission and swung your other leg away, paving your way to freedom away from those steady hands. There was no way you could feel his warmth through all your layers beneath the skirt, but the shape of his fingertips still ghosted over your hips. Fighting the urge to look back, you walked away with flaming cheeks, and hurriedly headed directly to the bar. Well, more like swayed to the bar as embarrassment sunk in slowly in your drunken state.

It was almost as if he was completely unbothered by your presence whilst the mere thought of that skull mask made your logic haywire, aggression being an immediate outlet. You certainly needed that drink, or anything as a distraction, but the bar was unreachable. The hoard of people flaying their limbs to the deep base reverberating through your form didn’t allow you a direct way, so you tried to push yourself through the sides of the crowd. Even being half-way there, you saw that getting that drink would be a pain, the barstools fully occupied, a line of people trying to get the overworked bartender’s attention.

You sighed, knowing that you would have to wait for that reprieve for more than an hour, going by how slow the line was moving. After someone bumped into your sore shoulder, an answer to your question came in the form of the red sign of Exit behind you. Maybe you wouldn’t get a drink, but fresh air might help stave away the recurring memory of the shape of Ghost’s palms on you. The fact that you kept thinking about it made you want to punch something… Fresh air it is. Without looking back, you went outside into a back alley, the cold air helping you sober up enough to not stumble through the horde of smokers blocking the entrance.

What was this bar selling that was so full? You cursed lowly, knowing that your much needed moment of peace would have to wait some more. The thought of calling for a Taxi back to base crossed your mind, your annoyance slowly rising. Unfortunately, you left your purse behind with the other two, your bra carrying the only cash you had in the currency, enough for that one drink you kept dreaming about.

With arms crossed around you, you set your pride aside and found a dark corner to sit in, the lights and the music far away. A little misplaced wooden crate allowed you to take the weight off your feet, far enough to hide you from the locals chatting away over cigarettes. You weren’t as vigilant as your usual self, knowing that with your combat training, you were the most dangerous person amongst them.

With that in mind and at the relief of momentary silence, you closed your eyes, fingertips massaging your temples. Maybe it had been a blessing in disguise that you couldn’t get that drink. You had been bunking with another soldier in the common barracks, the cafeteria was always busy, your itinerary was filled with missions, training, discussing intel, fighting with Ghost and being subjected to horrible jokes and prompts from your peers. This had been the only moment you’ve been alone, you realized.

Peace was broken as you opened your eyes, military boots standing inches away from you. You scolded yourself for recognizing them immediately, not an ounce of you distinguishing him as enemy. Was it normal to even find annoying how silent he was when walking? You should’ve seen him coming.

“Didn’t take you for a smoker,” Ghost said, already knowing that you weren’t. You knew that to your core. He was too observant and too vigilant for his own good, or for your sanity.

“I’m not. Where’s Johnny?” You looked up, craning your neck upwards. The mass of him blended with the darkness of the sky behind him. You could only make out his eyes out of the balaclava.

“Inside,” He looked down on you and you debated if your pride was enough to make you stand up. Even if it was impossible, you wanted to be enough to stand at his height, for him to recognize you at something as your equal. He better walk away before you start spewing truths that would only confess your drunken self.

“And what are you doing here?”

“Checking up on you.”

You held in the scoff, rolling your eyes with closed lids. You waved him away, going back to massaging your temples. “You can tell Johnny I’m fine. Just getting some fresh air.”

He looked sideways momentarily, eyeing the smokers nearby, then returned to pin you down with the heaviness of his gaze.

“You’re hiding,” he said with no question in his statement, head tilting sideways with curiosity.

“No-“

“Away from me,” he rumbled deeply, almost to himself. “It seems we are at an impasse.”

“I’m not doing this right now. Whatever you want to talk about, will be at base with a superior present,” you glared upwards as he eyed the hands now in tight fists on your lap. He knew you were clearly referring to Price, who abided to the bureaucratic process despite his favoritism for his favorite killer. That killer wasn’t you obviously.

You were considered too sentimental, as if that was another flaw.

After a beat, he opened his mouth solely to aggravate you, you were sure. “Said superior suggested we resolve our issues outside of work.”

The comment felt like a mockery. “And this is out of work, right? Get a few drinks in the girl, lower her defenses… and just talk.”

He hummed, a sound you felt in the hollow of your chest. It was almost as if you couldn’t help but react to his every word as an insult. The resentment you held for him always made you wonder that maybe, if you hadn’t felt like proving something to him, you would’ve stayed as a mediocre soldier. That his tough lessons and obvious disdain were meant due to something greater. You wanted to be grateful, to see the good outcome of the estranged liaison you have with one of your superiors, but it was draining enough to know that all effort would go to waste.

“I’ll let them know you were not reciprocating, up to resolve our issues,” he answered with finality, knowing that his flat tone would make you take the bait. He didn’t even blink at your scoff, your eyebrows furrowing at your irritation, him knowing too easily how to get a reaction out of you.

“Issues?” You stood up shakily, leaning your weight on the wall behind you. “Why don’t you tell me what our issues are, Lieutenant?”

In a moment of bravery, you stood on the crate. Even with the added height, the top of your head didn’t even reach his clavicle.

“You’re angry.” He crossed his arms uncharacteristically, biceps bulging at the tension. His eyes roved up and down, as if searching for a clue as to what had you so mad. And in something similar to a question, he added, “At me.”

Furious, but you didn’t correct him. You crossed your arms to imitate his pose, incredulous at the obvious statement. This time you used his tactic and stayed silent as an answer, opting for him to fill in the conversation.

“Tell me why,” he demanded gruffly.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” He couldn’t just interrupt your me-time and start demanding answers out of you, you convinced yourself. You knew you were being difficult, but at this moment, this was merely deflecting. There was no way you would confess your insecurities upon his demands, as if the outcome were to be an improvement.

It was his turn to tilt his eyes up to the sky, seeking answers as he sighed in exasperation. In a second after contemplating, he let his guard down so plainly, you stood shocked and deadly still at his stance. What was this? His shoulders relaxed, arms resting down by his side, eyes beseeching to answer. A clear posture open to you. “I can’t fix something if I don’t know what’s wrong, sweetheart.”

The endearment and the sincerity in his eyes caught you off guard. You blinked, eyes wide open, ignoring the surprise of the coiling heat stirring near your thighs.

Then he went on to call your call sign, spurring you to blurt out the first thing that came to mind.

“You’re mean to me,” You lowered your arms to your sides like him.

You felt like a child, whining, and impossibly allocating a responsibility that didn’t belong to him.

He lowered his chin in disbelief. “You’re… mad at me because I’m mean.”

His complete disregard made you do the exact thing you wanted to avoid. Spill.

“Just mean? No,” Your fury got the best of you, “You know exactly what I’m talking about!”

His eyes widened for the first time, your outburst uncharacteristic, even for your short temper.

“If this is about that night-“

“You don’t treat me like the others. Even before that night.” You interrupted him, emphasizing what he implied, but felt hysterical at his clear misunderstanding. “You punish me for things that are not my fault. After we spar, I hide bruises because my superior can’t get over himself, but because its my job, I have to pretend its normal, like its professional. And then I’m the weak one? When others don’t have to take your beatings because…because… I don’t know why!”

“Sparring can be violent,” he justified, but to you, he didn’t sound so sure of himself.

“Violent?” You said, nearly shouting. “Violent?!” Ignoring the stiffness of your shoulders and the cold of the Serbian night, you shook of your coat. It was the first time he’d seen more of your skin, your uniform tended to provide full coverage. Even that night was fast and rough, but not unclothed.

He said nothing, his eyes wide at the purple imprints of his fists beneath the thin straps. You knew he could see, even in the dimmed light, how the bruises trailed down your shoulders. He must’ve known they would paint your arms as well, but you hadn’t shed your coat completely. You dared to believe he looked at you in horror, but your feelings bled over the dark alleyway against your better judgment.

“You set impossible expectations in our missions, in drills, and then you act like I’m some sort of failure when I can’t… I’m good at what I do. I do what I’m supposed to do, which is follow orders, swallow my pride, be a good soldier. And then you looked for me to get in my bed, and then nothing from you. So, I did what was expected, I stayed quiet. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

He stared and stared, reclamations going over his head as his eyes trailed the rest of your body with furrowed eyebrows. Alarmed. It was the most expressive you’ve seen him. No balaclava could hide the tension that held him upright.

“And then you ask Price to keep me off the next mission, after I keep proving that I’m capable. What else do you want from me?”

For the first time in a long time, he had no sass, no jokes, no answer for what he’d done.

“Y/N… I-“ He choked.

“I’m asking Price to change units. This will be my las mission with 141,” This time, he looked like he wanted to say something, but you were done with his excuses. “I’m done with your disrespect and your justified violence.”

You threw the word back at his face, Ghost tense and quiet.

“Y/N?” Someone asked from the exit. As your head snapped towards the voice, you hastily put your coat on, covering your shoulders immediately.

Johnny clutched your purse, eyes roving over your face and red rimmed eyes. The hesitance to look at your body let you know he had seen enough. Blue eyes kept jumping from Ghost to you, back and forth connecting the dots. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, just tired. Heading back to base,” You stepped down the crate, Ghost taking a sudden step back, as if you’d burned him. He officially wanted nothing to do with you.

“I will take you,” Johnny offered, gently and uncharacteristic, raising an arm to put over your shoulders in comfort, but let it fall as if he thought it over. In a second, he turned with an expectant palm towards Ghost. “Keys.”

He didn’t ask, he demanded. And Ghost, the good soldier he was, followed orders.

“The Lieutenant will take a cab.”

The Lieutenant didn’t argue.

The ride was tense, Johnny flickering glances at your silent state. As you stared blankly at the windshield, he hid his anger under his worry.

“Do you… should you talk to someone?” Johnny asked tentatively, indicating that maybe someone of a higher ranking should get involved.

“No,” you answered, finality in your tone.

You opened the door hastily when you arrived, avoiding any opportunity for him to ask more questions.

You had done enough talking for the night.

Thankfully, the common barracks were empty. But as you sat on the lower bunk bed, you felt a note crumble beneath your weight.

You stared at nothing in the dark, exhausted, taking deep breaths for a few minutes before you had to read, dreading another mission or another memo at your impertinence.

After gaining courage, the light post by the window allowed you to read that the note was a relocation to another bed.

The private room was yours, just like the private bathroom and the queen-sized bed. It was a slight gratification after everything that transpired a few hours ago.

And it was in another hall from your unit, further away from Ghost’s own private bedroom.

You didn’t want to think about him anymore this night, you thought as the nearly boiling water cascaded down your back.

As you scrubbed yourself clean, you reminded yourself that you needed to thank Johnny, he must’ve had to pull some impossible strings to find you a private bedroom amongst the fully occupied base.

In secret, inside of your new bedroom, you finally allowed yourself to cry.

Part 2

#cod x reader #ghost x y/n #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #cod fanfic

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 4 months ago

Text

Shut Me Up

Summary: years after falling out, her, Aemond and the friend group take a summer trip to their Dornish villa, where real intentions make themselves known | word count: 9.2k | warnings: smut, choking, hair pulling, spanking, enemies to lovers ish, swearing, mentions of marijuana use, fingering

A/N: didn't mean to post this on the Mitchelly man's birthday but here we are. A little smutty number in celebration of my seasonal depression cured. And for this fic let's pretend they're all not related, mmk

She thought it'd stay in the group chat, like most of their holiday plans.

Unfortunately, or fortunately for some, it had somehow materialised into a long weekend away on the white sand Dornish beaches. Her bank account was not particularly happy, but the promise of endless sun, cocktails, friends and fun, would just about make up for it, she supposed.

As the only one with a credit card that wasn't maxed out, she rented the hire van for the six hour road trip it would take to get to the villa. She tried, often, to persuade Baela or Helaena into driving. But the former insisted on doing her makeup in the passenger seat for the first leg of the journey, and the latter, well, she'd likely be handing out the space brownies in the back seat.

So it was decided, in the end, Baela would pick up the second half of the drive. She prayed, for the sake of her deposit, that the roads were clear.

The force at which Rhaena threw her overnight bag at her nearly knocked all the wind out of her, “fuck me, Rhae, the hell is in this thing?”

“What? I need to bring aftersun, painkillers, first aid kit, blister patches—”

Baela snorts, brushing past her anxious twin to stuff her bag in the boot of the van, “Rhaena’s brain doesn't know the difference between having a gun to her head and being unprepared.”

“At least you pack lightly,” she smirks, raising a brow, trying her best to shove the luggage aside to fit.

Jace was quick to follow out, his flip flops unabashedly falling to pieces, clad in khaki shorts and a white shirt. She'll never get her head around what Baela sees in him. Sure he's funny, attractive, but he dresses like he's done it in the dark and it's still the early 2000s.

She watches as Helaena and Aegon squabble for the house keys to lock up, having hosted Jace, Baela and Rhaena the night before in preparation for the trip. Luke and Daeron, as fun as they are to have around, are too young for a trip like this. And it's probably for the better anyway, knowing the history between Aemond and Luke. The incident that nobody really dares to talk about.

Helaena beamed, eyes tinged pink from either sun or something stronger as she clambered into the back of the van in a boho white dress. There was an easy air about everything. An excitement that cut through the humid air that billowed off the concrete pavements. The sort you only get from going on holiday.

And Aegon, well.

He's Aegon.

He winks, pulling his sunglasses over his eyes, “hey babe.”

“Absolutely fucking not, Aegon. Get in the van.”

He feigns disappointment, “you're breaking my fucking heart.”

“You'll live.”

Aegon snacks Helaena's arm to budge up a space and plonks himself right in the middle seat, stretching his legs out only to annoy Rhaena in the seat in front.

“Who's ready for a road trip!” Helaena squealed excitedly.

Baela laughed, glancing back over Jace’s arm that was around her shoulders, “are you high already?”

“Excuse you, I am perfectly sober.”

“She's high,” Rhaena added, barely looking up from her phone.

She bit back a laugh, and was about to ask where the last passenger was, always late but hey, reliably late. But he appeared before she had the chance to utter the words.

Aemond.

He walked towards the van with the usual effortless arrogance, duffel bag shoved over his shoulder, silver hair pulled into a lazy knot. He was dressed in all black because of course he was. Even if it was nearly 40 degrees Celsius and hot enough to fry an egg on the kerb.

To be fair, she'd not seen him in a while, so she looked him up and down, and he was, if not a little bit taller than the last time she saw him. And the scar that lined through his brow, through his eye and down his cheek was almost silvery in the midday sun.

Aside from that, he was still the most raging twat she'd ever met.

For the slightest second, their gazes met, but he was first to look away. No smirk. No greeting. Just the cold, unreadable calm.

“Here he is, our favourite brooder,” Aegon laughed.

Aemond exhaled through his nose, sighing into the last seat at the very back and tucking his bag between his feet, “shut up, Aegon.”

Aegon grinned, clapping him on the shoulder, “Gods I missed this family dynamic. It's so fucking healthy.”

She pretended to instead be interested with how to turn the headlights on and off, even though she wouldn't need them on the six hour drive. Boot closed, engine roaring and everyone, well…nearly everyone, squealed ‘let’s go!’.

The inside of the car smelled like sun cream, salty crisps, and whatever questionable concoction Aegon had decided to mix into his oversized tumbler. The air-conditioning was on full blast, fighting against the relentless Dornish heat.

Helaena, currently high as hell of a ‘brownie’, was sprawled out like a sun-dazed lizard, arms stretched above her head, blinking lazily at the passing scenery.

Aegon chuckled, “how many did you eat, Hel?”

Helaena giggled, “like…one and a half. But they were big,” she raised her fingers like she was measuring something ridiculous.

She looked in the rear-view mirror as a car behind them overtook them on the dual carriageway, and caught eyes with Aemond, who had his noise cancelling headphones on. The blue of one eye and the misty grey of the other made her heart leap as they clocked on hers, however briefly. And Baela certainly noticed how hard she gripped the steering wheel.

Aemond looked largely the same, lean but built, sharp features, all arrogance albeit silent. And though his hair was tied back, a few strands were loose. And she hated that she noticed.

It had been years since the falling out.

It was a terrible mix. They were teenagers. Had a bit to drink, when the tolerance was horrific. Followed by a very public argument at one of his family gatherings that ended in her calling him a ‘pretentious, controlling asshole’. And well, the rest was history. They existed whenever the friend group got together, each too stubborn to force the friendship group to adjust to their spat, but she avoided him all the same.

For the record she still thought he was all of the above.

The drive was quiet but long. And between Helaena's spaced-out ramblings, Jace’s terrible choice in music and Rhaena complaining she needed to pee, Baela took it upon herself to find a service station to stop up. And as soon as the handbrake was up, the doors flew open and they all rushed out like a chaotic clown car act.

The station was nothing special, some off-brand fast food places and a tiny shop for snacks and drinks. But it would do. She hopped out the drivers side and down the side of the van, bristling when Aemond climbed out his side and they brushed shoulders.

He smirked, “relax, I'm not going to bite.”

All she could do was shake her head and throw a face of disgust that Baela certainly didn't miss, “are you two still at it?” she asked, amused, “this has been going on for years. Honestly impressive at this point.”

She rolled her eyes, watching as Aemond stalked off behind Aegon to the shop, “I don’t have the energy to argue with someone who thinks he’s better than everyone else just because he reads philosophy books and drives like he’s in a Fast and Furious movie.”

Aemond didn't go inside, he leaned on the wall, stoking up a cigarette, the lazy smoke dwindling from his lips into the hazy Dornish air. She hated the way he was just so effortlessly nonchalant, like he belonged in an black and white movie.

“You’re staring,” Baela said, voice laced with amusement.

She tore her gaze away, scowling, “I am not.”

Baela hummed knowingly, “suuuure. You know, if you just fucked it out, all this tension would be gone.”

She choked through a sip of water, “Baela—”

“What? I’m just saying,” she shrugged, smirking, “I mean, I don’t even think he hates you as much as you think he does.”

She scoffed, “please. We’ve been at each other’s throats since we were kids. Aemond thrives on making my life miserable.”

“Or,” Baela drawled, “he thrives on getting under your skin because he likes your reaction.”

She rolled her eyes, but her face felt hot, was she getting a sunburn? “We’re not having this conversation.”

“Fine, fine,” she relented, then, casually, she added, “by the way, I heard he and Alys broke up. Months ago.”

That made her freeze.

Baela watched her expression closely, like she was waiting for a reaction. She forced a neutral shrug, stuffing her hands into her pockets, “and?”

“And,” she smirked, “you’re pretending you don’t care.”

Did she care? Really?

“I'm going to pretend we didn't have this conversation.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Baela laughed without a care as Rhaena bounded back up to them with a handful of snacks. Aegon and the rest weren't far behind.

Aegon groaned, “thank the gods I was about to gnaw my own arm off.”

“I don’t know how you’re hungry,” she replied, eyeing him, “you inhaled half a bag of crisps like ten minutes ago.”

“I'm a growing boy,” he winked. Making the others gag.

Mercifully, nothing more was said on the matter. She simply graced the spot where Baela had been sat, had her snacks and let her drive the rest of the way. Rolling down her window, she let her hand rest out of it, the warm, dull air flowing through her fingers. Blissfully ignorant of her nemesis in the back seat.

She knew their dad was rich but Viserys’ obnoxiously sized villa was so endless it bordered on ridiculous. It was perched on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the endless blue stretch of sea, with a white, sandy beach sprawling at the foot of it.

The villa was no eyesore either. It's sunbleached patios, white stone walls and glass doors all reflected the shimmer of the sunlight on the water. And despite having the literal sea at your feet, the pool sat beneath the balcony, wide, deep and perfectly maintained.

Viserys Targaryen never did anything by halves.

Aegon whistled, “fuck me, I knew the old man had money, but taste?”

Helaena pushed by him, bag in tow, “I get the biggest room!”

“No you fucking don't—” Aegon called, running after her like a child.

She stretched her legs, hopping out of the van and inhaling the warm, salty sea air. The view was ridiculous, and a natural staircase made of stone led down the side towards the private beach.

Baela nudged her arm, “this is amazing.”

She nodded, “despite the company, this trip might be bearable.”

Aemond, audibly, trudged past with his duffel bag, lazily making his way into the villa with a smirk as if he'd heard.

Yep. Bearable.

Everyone was too exhausted to do anything but dump their bags in their rooms and laze around the pool. That, and raiding the kitchen for all the food.

By the time the sun had dipped below the horizon, everyone had found their spots and Jace and Aegon were already three beers deep and failing to pot anything at the pool table. She had found herself with the girls poolside, nursing a bottle as they dipped their feet in the cool water.

“We're all waking up early for the beach,” Rhaena declared, loud enough for Aegon to groan.

She laughs, the water rippling around her legs, “what are we doing swimsuit-wise? Practical or hot?”

“Hot.”

“Hot!”

Rhaena and Baela answered simultaneously.

“Hey I've seen you in the bikini, you'll give someone a heart attack,” Baela grinned.

“Shut up.”

Maybe it wasn't heart attack worthy, but the bikini certainly was something. It had honestly felt like she'd lived a lifetime since last seeing herself in swimwear, the seasonal depression had done no favours there. But now, looking at herself in the mirror, she nodded and pulled her hair away from her face, lathering herself with sun cream before attempting the blazing Dornish midday.

“Gods, if I were gay,” Baela whistled from where she sat on the bed, a dark blue translucent shawl tucked over her shoulders.

She rolled her eyes with a snort, “please, you'll be gushing in thirty seconds about how Jace looks in knee length shorts.”

“Hey. Knee length shorts gets some girls going, okay?”

Rhaena scoffs, white streaks of half-rubbed in sun cream glazing her cheeks, “just you, sis.”

Yep, definitely just you, she thinks.

She'd underestimated the beach. It was gorgeous, idyllic, in fact there weren't enough words. It was just secluded enough to feel private, and nobody wasted any time in making use of it.

Some jumped head first into the waves, tackling and splashing. Aegon had brought with him a garish purple lilo, which Jace found great pleasure in flipping over occasionally, dunking Aegon and whatever drink he was holding into the turquoise water.

Even Aemond, who usually abstained from these sort of activities, had shed his shirt and waded lazily into the water, the sun somewhat reflecting off his sun-cream glistened skin.

She hated that she noticed.

Even more, she hated the way the water made his hair a shade darker, how the drops of water ran down his chest—

No. No. Nope.

She leaned back on the sun bed, pushing her hat over her eyes, willing the image out of her mind as quick as it had come. And the first day passed quickly. She'd dipped in the sea, yes, but not the boyish, rowdy behaviour that the boys and even Helaena were sporting. Most of it was spent lounging, relaxing.

Burning.

Gods, a lot of burning.

By the time night-time had rolled around, her shoulders were pink, mirrored with a dusty line across her cheeks and nose. The ticklish sensation hadn't kicked in yet. That was tomorrow her’s problem.

Right now, all she needed was a nice cold shower and peace.

And peace she found. The villa fell into an easy, relaxed quiet. Somewhere down the hall Aegon was giggling drunkenly, Baela was probably spooning Jace and she could fear the faint sound of TV through Helaena's bedroom.

She padded barefoot across the cool tiles, pushing open the balcony doors that graced one side of her room. The breeze crept in, welcome and warm on her skin, just enough to let in the salty scent in the air.

She mindlessly rubbed the back of her neck where the bikini top had made its tan line. Or what would eventually be a tan line anyway, right now it looked more scarlet. Staring out, the flickering lights of nearby villages blinked in the distance, sparkling along the peninsula where the villa sat atop.

The reflection of the lit pool below caught her eye, and she felt her throat tighten at the sight. Swimming, in the dark and illuminated only by the cool lights beneath the water, was Aemond, cutting through the water with lazy, practiced strokes.

He was alone. Quiet. And ashamed to say he looked good.

The thought came before it could be stopped, but once it was there it took root, and an immediate scowl crept to her face at her weakness.

His bare shoulders gleamed under the tempered light, lean, toned frame moving through the water with a silent grace. The water had made his hair slicked back, revealing the cut of his jaw, and the sharp angles of his cheekbones.

Aemond ran his hands over his face, leaning back with a sigh to dip his hair back into the water. Her heart nearly leapt through her chest as his gaze lifted to her on the balcony, catching her watching him.

Shit.

Her stomach twisted, heat crept up her neck and it absolutely wasn't sunburn. She could do nothing more than just pretend she wasn't watching him, so she turned on her heel, and slid back inside her room, holding the balcony doors shut with her heart rate going a mile a minute.

She could feel his gaze as she shut the door. Could imagine his expression too, smug bastard.

Mouth suddenly dry, she pulled her shawl around her tighter and made for the kitchen, needing something to take away this aftertaste. Grumbling and sighing, she scolded herself, barely even at the cupboard before she spotted him.

He was standing by the fridge, bottle of water in hand, in nothing more than the shorts he was wearing to swim resting low on his hips. His hair was still damp, but some bits curled around his face, and she hoped he hadn't seen the way she noticed the slightest ‘v’ that disappeared below the waistband.

He turned, perfectly calm, as if he hadn't just caught her staring for the second time in ten minutes.

“Can't sleep?”

She crossed her arms, looking off, “needed water.”

He laughed once, breathy, and threw the water he was holding to her, which she caught with her other hand as it slipped through her fingers.

“Thanks.”

The moment stretched.

She only watched from her periphery as Aemond grabbed another from the fridge, and twisted off the cap. She had luckily resisted the urge to watch him bring it to his lips and down half as if he was parched.

No sooner had she bought the bottle to her own lips.

“You keep looking at me like that.”

She nearly choked on her water.

Her fingers tightened around the bottle, crinkling under the pressure as she turned to glare at him. “Like what?”

His eye flickered, taking her in with slow, assessing amusement. “You tell me.”

Her breath hitched, and she hated that her body betrayed her, the way her thighs tensed slightly, the way her fingers curled. Aemond noticed. Of course he did.

She rolled her eyes, masking the heat creeping up her neck, “you’re delusional.”

He chuckled, taking a slow sip of his water, his smirk never fading.

“Sure,” he murmured.

Rolling her eyes came naturally, “I still don’t know why you even came on this trip.”

Aemond raised a brow. “Why wouldn’t I?”

She scoffed. “Because you hate me.”

He tilted his head, considering her, his smirk turning thoughtful. “And what gave you that idea?”

She drained the bottle and crushed it with her palm, annoyance brewing, and she saw the amused quirk of his brow, “oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that you’ve spent the last few years acting like I’m the most insufferable person in existence?”

“You're not insufferable,” he chuckled, “maybe a bit, actually.”

She blinked, “excuse me?”

He shrugged, “I never said I hated you.”

She let out a dry laugh, “right. So all those times you went out of your way to argue with me? That wasn’t hatred?”

“I think you’re confusing hatred with enjoyment.”

She stomach flipped. No. Nope. Absolutely not.

She pointed a finger at him, “don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“You know what.”

That tone. That fucking tone. The one that was both amused and knowing, the one that made her face heat up against her will.

Aemond tilted his head, his voice dropping just slightly. “If I hated you,” he said, “I wouldn’t be standing here right now.”

She stared at him. The smirk had slipped from his lips. The teasing tone gone. Fuck.

There was something in his gaze that was something else entirely and she wasn't sure she wanted the flip of her tummy to tell her what it was. She swallowed hard. And before she did or said something stupid, turned on her heel and left to the sanctuary of her room.

And he let her.

A lazy morning was needed for most to sleep off the sunburns and drinks, but for her, she needed the lie in just to avoid running into Aemond as much as possible.

So with the day ahead, they'd decided to go to Sunspear Old Village, a collection of independent restaurants, shops and bakeries. The drive was short, but the difference between the villa and the sprawling village side streets was immediate.

The atmosphere was exciting, sunny, citrus and salt, vendors calling out for customer's attention. Markets lined the stoned path, freshly baked goods, colourful fabrics and handcrafted jewellery.

She and Baela lagged behind, a large sunhat on both their heads to shield from the unyielding sun, taking their time weaving through the stalls, oo-ing and ah-ing at the various Dornish wares.

One particular stall was everything she liked. Handmade jewellery of all golden hues, one worker was moulding a ring into shape and another was placing stencils against thinly laid gold and striking it with a mallet.

The one she liked was a small, golden sun pendant. Dark gold. Delicate and yet striking despite its simple design. The metal was hammered in small indents, and she marvelled at the craftsmanship with her fingertip over the surface.

“You should get it,” Baela insisted.

She tilted her head, “hm, I could but…don't really need it, and I didn't exchange enough money.”

“Since when did you need an excuse to buy jewellery?”

She grinned at Baela, glancing back at Aemond and Helaena as they toddled behind. The taller man had his hands in his pockets, sighing as his sister dragged him into yet another stall.

She swore she caught his gaze on her, for a split second.

Baela was too observant for her own good. “You are so fucking obvious.”

“What?”

“I heard you two talking last night.”

She nearly choked on air, “what the hell, Baela—”

She snorted a laugh, pulling her sunhat over her eyes, “I wasn't eavesdropping! I just wanted a glass of water when I heard—” she straightened her back, puffing out her chest, “you keep looking at me like that.”

She gasped, smacking her arm, “Baela!”

She laughed, dodging herr second hit. "Oh, come on! That was the most tension I’ve ever heard in my life. I thought you two were about to—"

"Don’t. Even. Finish. That. Sentence."

Baela just smirked, eyes twinkling. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You so are.”

She huffed, opening her mouth to fire back–

A flash of white and gold hurtled between them, and Helaena, her dress swishing around her shins, beamed up, “look!” she exclaimed, vibrating with excitement as she presented a gold charm in her palm, “it’s a scorpion!”

Neither of them could hide their amusement.

“Hel, of all the things to buy,” Baela smirked.

Helaena just grinned, unbothered, “scorpions are lucky,” she said matter-of-factly.

She laughed a little, half in amusement and half because it must be nice to see the bright side of everything, “of course you’d find something weirdly meaningful.”

Hel clutched it happily, “I’m going to put it on my keychain.”

She exchanged looks with Baela, who simply shrugged. Helaena was Helaena.

And then, as if she could sense the conversation she had just interrupted, she tilted her head at her, blinking dreamily. “Are you flirting with Aemond?”

And all it took was Baela barking out into fits of laughter for her to roll her eyes, pretend those words hadn’t just come out of Helaena’s mouth and jog forwards to Rhaena instead, who mercifully was blissfully unaware of anything going on with the aforementioned Targaryen.

She and the girls had taken it upon themselves to bring down some food from the kitchen as well as the fire pit, nestling it into the sand and pulling their shawls over their shoulders to stay off the chill once the sun had dipped with the temperature.

Aegon, as expected, was putting on a show. The moment the flames came to life, he thumped his chest like a deranged caveman, grinning wildly, waiting for laughter that never came.

Baela, unimpressed but entertained, simply lifted her phone. Flash. Click. Post.

Aegon froze mid-motion, the colour draining from his face. “Baela. Delete that.”

She smirked, tucking her phone away. “Nope.”

“I will literally die if that’s on the internet.”

“It’s already on Instagram.”

With a loud groan, Aegon flopped backward into the sand, arms outstretched in defeat. Baela only grinned, her attention shifting to the half-empty bottle beside her. “Oh, fuck, we’re out of vodka.”

She nestled herself closer to Jace, clearly not intending to move.

From across the fire, she scoffed. “I’ll get some, you lazy fuckers.”

Aegon half-heartedly saluted, “brave of you. I wouldn’t make it up those stairs sober, let alone drunk.”

He wasn’t wrong. The private staircase leading up to the villa was steep and unforgiving, and this was, what, her fourth time climbing it today? With a resigned sigh, she pushed herself up, the warmth of the fire lingering against her skin as she stepped away from the group.

By the time she reached the top, she paused, catching her breath, turning toward the horizon.

The sea stretched out endlessly, dark and gleaming, with a sliver of gold and baby blue still clinging to the edge of the sky where the sun had disappeared.

I could get used to this.

Even if she had to endure him.

Shaking the thought away, she slipped through the villa doors, heading straight for the kitchen. It was dimly lit, the quiet hum of the night settling around her. She barely made it three steps before a voice cut through the silence.

“Thirsty?”

She jumped, nearly knocking over a glass. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she spun around, eyes landing on Aemond. He stood near the counter, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable, except for the faintest trace of a smirk. But it wasn’t just the way he looked at her that made her pulse jump. It was how he looked.

His silver hair was damp, strands curling slightly at the ends, still clinging to the warmth of a recent shower. He hadn’t bothered with a shirt, just a pair of low-hanging black shorts, his skin catching the dim glow of the kitchen lights, casting shadows over the sharp lines of his stomach, the cut of his collarbone.

She swallowed, gripping the vodka bottle a little tighter than necessary.

He was insufferable.

He was annoying.

And yet–

“Didn’t take you for the helpful type,” she muttered, turning back to the cabinet, refusing to look at him for too long.

A quiet chuckle left his lips, “I wasn’t waiting for you, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Her jaw tightened. “Didn’t say you were. Just stop lurking around waiting to frighten me, would you.”

Aemond leaned against the counter, watching her with that same unreadable expression. She didn’t know what he was looking for, what he was waiting for, but it was irritating. She set the vodka bottle down on the counter with a dull thud, crossing her arms as she turned to face him fully.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to get from this.”

“From what?”

“This,” she gestured vaguely, “you know exactly what. You’re acting like we never fell out. But we did, Aemond. You should hate my guts.”

Aemond resisted the urge to outright laugh. The truth was, they had never fallen out. Not in his mind. Oh, they had argued. Gods, had they argued. She had called him pretentious, insufferable, a controlling asshole. He had thrown words back just as easily, his own cutting remarks meant to frustrate her, rile her up, get her to fight him harder.

He liked that she didn’t hold back, that she met him blow for blow, insult for insult. Still does.

Aemond exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly, “you’re still talking to me.”

She scoffed. “Like I have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

Something in her chest twisted at that, but she refused to let it show. She rolled her eyes, reaching for the vodka bottle and tucking it under her arm. “Whatever game you’re playing, Aemond, find someone else to play it with.”

She left the kitchen without another word, gripping the vodka bottle tighter than necessary as she made her way back down the endless stone steps to the beach. The sea breeze hit her as soon as she reached the bottom, cool and briny, doing little to chase away the strange heat in her chest.

You always have a choice.

She scowled, shoving the thought aside as she rejoined the group, dropping the bottle into Baela’s waiting hands. “There,” she muttered, sinking back onto the blanket, pulling her shawl tighter around herself. “Now stop making me do all the work.”

Baela grinned, already unscrewing the cap. “You’re a hero.”

The fire burned low, casting a warm glow against their sun-kissed faces, flickering against the edges of the waves. She barely noticed Aemond’s arrival until he was lowering himself onto the sand a few feet away, silent, as always, but technically, next to her.

Unlike earlier, he had thrown on a loose button-down, the top few buttons left undone, revealing a sliver of tanned skin and collarbone. His silver hair was still damp, stray strands falling over his sharp features. He looked completely at ease, like he belonged in the firelight, the shadows playing over the angles of his face.

Stop that.

Baela poured out shots, handing them around. “To questionable decisions and even worse hangovers.”

Jace groaned. “We are so fucked tomorrow.”

The alcohol burned, but she welcomed it, letting the warmth spread through her veins, dulling the tension in her shoulders. One shot became two. Then three.

And then, somewhere between Aegon trying to wrestle Jace into the sand and Rhaena doing drunken cartwheels again, the conversation took a sharp turn.

“Oh, I know what we should talk about,” Aegon declared suddenly, tossing an empty bottle into the sand.

Baela groaned. “If you say kinks, I swear to the gods—”

“Kinks.”

Jace put his face in his hands. “Fucking hell.”

Aegon smirked, completely unrepentant. “Come on. We’ve been drinking. There are no rules. Let’s make this interesting.”

Rhaena laughed, shaking her head. “This is already a terrible idea.”

Baela smirked. “Fine. But you go first, since you brought it up.”

Aegon leaned back on his hands, completely unbothered. “Easy. Hair pulling, spanking, and—”

“Enough.” Jace groaned. Helaena fake gagged, shaking her head.

One by one, everyone went around, rattling off their preferences with varying degrees of amusement or reluctance.

And then it was her turn.

She hesitated. “Pass.”

Baela raised a brow. “No passes.”

She exhaled, rolling her shoulders, acting unfazed. “It’s not even that interesting.”

“Then it should be easy to say,” Baela countered, smirking.

She took a sip of her drink, then, with a casual shrug, said, “Choking.”

It wouldn’t have gotten such a reaction if it were anyone else, but Aemond, fucking chuckled. She turned her head sharply, only to find him watching her, smirking slightly, his gaze dark with something unreadable.

“What?” she snapped, her voice sharper than intended.

“Nothing,” he grinned behind the bottle he was nursing.

“No, go on, what’s so funny?”

Aemond tilted his head, studying her, his smirk growing the slightest bit sharper. “I just don’t think you’d let someone get their hands on you like that,” he murmured.

Her pulse spiked.

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the heat of the fire, maybe it was just him, but she felt it, the way the air shifted, the way the space between them suddenly felt far too small. Luckily, the others swiftly got bored of their verbal sparring. A small relief. But it made her feel at least like everyone wasn’t zeroed in on what they were talking about.

She scoffed, leaning back and burying her palms in the sand, “and you’re an expert.”

“I don’t think you’d let someone do it properly.”

Despite the crackle of…something, in the air. The alcohol had not only made her wavy, but braver. And she met his gaze with her chin up, “and you think you could?”

Aemond exhaled a quiet laugh, setting his drink down beside him.

“I don’t think. I know.”

Her lips parted, something thrumming hot under her skin, crawling up her spine. She pushed it away quickly, her eyes lazy and challenging, “yeah right, as if–”

Her lips snapped shut when she felt it, unhurried, his hand curling around her neck. Not tight. Not rough. Just enough to feel it. Just enough to make her breath catch. Her entire body went rigid, heat pooling at the base of her spine, her pulse hammering against the cage of her ribs.

His fingers rested lightly over her throat, long and steady, the faintest pressure applied in a way that was taunting. Testing. Aemond watched her reaction carefully, his gaze dark and focused, thumb resting just below her jaw, brushing over the sensitive skin, feeling the thrum of her heart at her pulse point. She swallowed, and he felt it.

His lips curled slightly. "See?" His voice was low, smug, dangerous. "That's how you'd want it."

Her breath was shallow, a sharp contrast to the cool sea air around them. She willed herself to react, to do something, anything, but her body wasn’t cooperating.

Aegon groaned loudly, “gods, just fuck already.”

The spell snapped.

Aemond pulled away, slow and deliberate, and she ripped her gaze from him, shaking herself back to reality. "Shut up, Aegon," she muttered, rolling her eyes, though her voice was noticeably weaker.

She glanced around, seeing that most were preoccupied. Thank the gods for vodka. But even as the conversation shifted, as Aegon moved on to some other stupid drunken tangent, her body still felt the ghost of Aemond's touch. Still burned with it.

She stole a glance at him beneath her lashes.

He was still watching her.

By the time they all stumbled back to the villa, buzzed from the alcohol, sunburnt from the day, and far too aware of the tension still crackling between her and Aemond, she knew she was in trouble.

Everyone was dispersing into their rooms, peeling off damp clothes and sand-covered swimsuits, muttering about showers and food. And her shower was swift and much needed, though the lukewarm water stung slightly at the red patch on her shoulder blades. She threw on a long shirt to sleep in to keep the sensitive skin off the sheets.

A soft knock though, froze her. In her gut, she already knew it was him. But it wasn’t gratifying in the least when she opened the door and confirmed she was correct. He leaned against the doorframe, as if he had all the time in the world, still wearing the loose linen button down shirt and shorts, though it was only now she noticed the chain sat at his throat.

She sighed, exasperated, but with a dull, needing ache she didn’t want to admit, “what do you want, Aemond.”

Aemond exhaled a quiet laugh. Then, without waiting for an invitation, he stepped inside, kicking the door closed. She stepped back automatically, breath hitching.

“Tell me to leave,” he murmured, his voice dark and even, like he already knew she wouldn’t.

The words balanced on her lips. But the heat between them was too thick, too heavy, and the ghost of his touch still lingered against her throat.

So she didn’t.

And the second she didn’t tell him to fuck off, she knew she was losing a game before it even started. Aemond crowded her as she backed up, almost casually, but there was nothing at all casual about the way he was looking at her. The way he was closing this distance as if he could predict how it would end. There was intent in every movement.

She echoed herself, “what do you want, Aemond.”

His smirk was expected but still made her stomach flip all the same, “I think we both know the answer to that.”

The air thickened, wrapping around her like smoke, suffocating. She should stop this. She should push him away. She should. But she didn’t. Instead, she stayed perfectly still as Aemond reached for her, tilting her chin up with two fingers.

"Say it," he murmured, and her eyes flickered to his mouth as he uttered the words.

She swallowed, throat dry. “Say what?”

His thumb dragged along her jawline, slow, teasing. "That you want me to touch you."

Her lips parted, a breath escaping. Humiliation and arousal tangled together, tightening in her chest, her stomach, lower.

She hated him. She wanted him.

And that was exactly why she finally whispered.

"Touch me."

His smirk disappeared, the fight leaving him. And then he did.

His lips crashed against hers, swallowing her gasp as his grip tightened around her jaw, backing her against the door. The force of it made her lips part, and Aemond wasted no time in taking advantage of it. He kissed her like he was claiming something, like he’d been waiting for this, waiting for her to give in. His tongue brushed against hers, demanding, teasing, and the moment she kissed him back with the same hunger, his hand wrapped around her throat.

Not hard enough to cut off air, just enough to remind her that it was there.

A soft, desperate sound escaped her lips before she could stop it.

Aemond smirked against her mouth, pulling back just enough to murmur, "So you do like it."

She glared at him, breathless, dizzy with want. "Shut up."

His fingers tightened, just slightly. Her pulse jumped and she tugged him back to her by his shirt, back to her lips, Aemond groaned, deep and low, before pulling back and flipping her around, her front pressed against the door, his chest flush against her back. Even like this, she could feel him strained against her backside, and it only made her want to push her hips, see how far she could push him too.

His hand slipped up her shirt, on the bare skin of her stomach, and she froze and melted at the same time. She felt him exhale against her neck at the touch, before sliding the tips of his fingers against the waistband of her underwear.

"Tell me you want it," he murmured against her ear.

Her breath came out shaky and she hated it, “Aemond—”

His fingers slipped lower, teasing, hovering exactly where she needed him. "Tell me," he repeated, dangerously patient.

She clenched her jaw, her body already thrumming. “I want it.”

Aemond’s chuckle was dark and satisfied. "Good girl."

His hand slipped beneath, past the barrier of her underwear, and the moment his fingers met her slick heat, his breath caught. Her lips parted, choking on air it seemed, her eyes slipping shut as he took his time.

"Fuck," he rasped, voice rough, "so fucking wet."

She bit her lip hard to stop herself from making a sound, but then he pressed his fingers against her clit, slow and deliberate, and she shuddered.

“Don’t be shy now,” Aemond murmured, lips grazing her neck, his other hand coming to her jaw to tilt her face towards him.

She nearly whimpered when he circled his fingers against her, slow, teasing, in complete control. The pressure was just enough to drive her insane, but not enough to push her over the edge. And then he did something dangerous. His hand tightened around her throat at the exact moment he slipped a finger inside her.

Her knees buckled.

"Aemond—"

Her body met him with infuriatingly little resistance, and Aemond seemed to revel in the warmth of her, how tight she seemed around one digit alone. And she just knew he was thinking about something else. How she might feel around him.

He groaned, pulling back just enough to look at her, his eye dark, jaw tight, lips parted like he was barely holding himself together. “You’re fucking perfect," he muttered.

Then, without warning, he added a second finger. She gasped, pressing back against him, his name slipping past her lips in a breathless, wrecked moan.

Aemond grinned, pressing his lips to her shoulder, her neck. "That’s it," he murmured. “Take it.”

Pressed between the door and Aemond was an unfortunate predicament. Unable to move, she could only stand there and take it, his long, deft fingers pressing up into her forcefully and crooking forwards, searching for her sweet spot with an almost obsessive attitude. But equally, so close to the door, to the hallway outside, she had no choice but to press her lips together and be quiet, despite his wish for her not to be.

He wanted people to hear.

She felt the slow, forceful grind of his fingers deep inside her, not thrusting in and out, but pressing, pushing, curling, rubbing against that spot that made her body tremble, made her breath hitch. Aemond moved his fingers in deep, slow circles, stretching her from the inside, coaxing out pleasure with cruel precision. Every shift of his hand sent shockwaves up her spine, her walls gripping around him tight, desperate, needy.

His thumb dragged against her clit, matching the pressure of his fingers inside her, not flicking or teasing, pressing down firmly, rubbing slow, torturous circles.

"Fuck—" the word tore from her throat, raw and uncontrolled, her hips jerking forward into his touch. And at the friction against his aching arousal, he almost whined.

But Aemond hummed, pleased. “Good girl.”

His voice sent heat licking down her spine, pooling low in her stomach. Her head fell back, her body tightening, burning, spiralling toward something devastatingly sharp.

"Aemond—" her voice was wrecked, breathless. He groaned, like hearing her like this did something to him, like it unravelled him, too.

His hand at her throat tightened slightly, tilting her head back as his lips grazed her jaw. “You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you?”

She could only nod, unable to think, unable to do anything but feel. The pleasure coiled tighter, deeper, spreading outward, her thighs trembling around his hand. Her body snapped, shattering apart as waves of pleasure crashed over her, raw and consuming, making her shake in his grasp.

Aemond groaned at the feel of it, his fingers working her through it, slow and deliberate as her walls fluttered around him, her body pulsing, clenching, trembling.

She barely had a second to catch her breath before he was moving. Grabbing her like a sack of potatoes and throwing her on the bed, wrenching her underwear down her legs, and forcefully flipping her over onto her stomach.

And then.

A sharp crack of heat across her backside.

Aemond must have felt her jolt, must have noticed the way her breath hitched, the way her thighs instinctively squeezed together. “Don’t be so surprised,” he mused, positioning her exactly how he wanted.

He leaned down, lips ghosting over the shell of her ear, his voice dark with satisfaction.

“Girls who are into choking are into much more than that.”

Her stomach twisted, her breath catching both at his words and his manhandling. She glanced back, catching his hands as they worked his shorts open to free himself, rendering her mouth suddenly dry. It was all so quick, she barely got a good look at him. He tugged her hips up slightly, the fat head of his cock parting her sensitive folds and began to push inside, and then she forgot how to think entirely. A wrecked sound escaped her throat, muffled by the sheets, her body already soaked, stretched, ready for him after his ruthless teasing.

He filled her completely, every inch stretching her open, the burn of it making her eyes squeeze shut. Aemond groaned, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck, still so tight,” he rasped, pulling back before slamming into her again, rough and unforgiving. The force of it sent her forward onto her elbows, her breath punched from her lungs. Starting out in this position, she felt every bit, the way his cock bent inside her, as if sculpting her to the shape of him.

It was filthy. Brutal. Perfect.

His fingers dug into her flesh, his pace relentless, punishing, as if he wanted to ruin her for anyone else. She let out a desperate, breathy moan, her body giving in, taking everything he gave her, arching back into him. And when she did, Aemond let out a low groan, sliding a hand up her back, over every notch of her smooth spine, trailing along the nape of her neck, his fingers tangling into her hair and tugging.

A ragged gasp tore from her throat, her scalp burning in the most intoxicating way. She clenched around him, and he felt it. His grip tightened, pulling her head back just enough to make her spine arch beautifully, her mouth parting in a silent moan.

Aemond groaned at the way her body reacted to him, the way she clenched around his cock like she was trying to keep him buried inside her forever.

“Oh, you really do like that, don’t you?” his voice was low, rough, laced with something dark and possessive, her hair wrapped around his long fingers.

She barely managed to choke out a sound, something between a gasp and a whimper, but it only spurred him on. His grip in her hair didn’t falter as he snapped his hips forward, fucking into her harder, deeper, rough enough to make the headboard slam against the wall. She shook beneath him, unable to do anything but take it, absorb every brutal thrust, every sharp pull of her hair that sent electricity racing down her spine.

“You’re going to come again, aren’t you?” he murmured, his pace never slowing, his thrusts hitting deep, over and over, dragging her closer to that edge.

She could only nod, her fingers clutching desperately at the sheets, at nothing.

She whined as he released her hair, his arm sliding around her waist to pull her up to him, dragging her up onto her knees with her back flush against his chest. Her head lolled back against his shoulder as his hand slid over her stomach, pushing her back onto him with every deep, punishing thrust.

“Aemond,” she gasped, barely able to form words, her voice breaking.

He groaned at the sound, at the way she tightened around him, pushing his hand lower, rubbing slow, firm circles over her clit.

And that was it.

Her body snapped, pleasure crashing over her in violent, uncontrollable waves, her moans raw and shattered as she came around him, clenching so tight it nearly sent him over the edge too.

“Fuck,” Aemond gritted out, his thrusts turning desperate, chasing his own high as her body milked him.

He buried himself deep, his jaw tight, breath ragged, before he finally let go, groaning her name as he came, spilling inside her, holding her still as he filled her completely.

For a long moment, the room was silent, nothing but the sound of their heavy breathing, the crackling of the sea breeze through the open window. Aemond’s grip eased, his hands sliding down to her waist as he pressed his forehead against her shoulder, his breath still unsteady.

Slowly, he pulled back, completely out of her, his hands sliding down her hips, making her shiver at the loss of him. He pressed a quick, lingering kiss to her shoulder before pushing himself up, reaching for his lowered shorts and pulling them back over his hips.

She lay there on her stomach, face pressed into the pillows, trying to process what the fuck had just happened.

And more than that , what it meant.

But before she could let her thoughts spiral, Aemond flopped onto the bed beside her, stretching his long limbs out, one arm tucked beneath his head.

It was almost too casual, too normal, like they hadn’t just spent the last hour fucking each other senseless. She turned her head, staring at him, trying to read the subtle curve of his lips, the way his gaze flickered to her like he was waiting for her reaction.

Finally, she spoke, voice hoarse from overuse.

“So…what now?”

Aemond let out a low chuckle, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from her face. “That depends. Are you going to keep pretending you hate me?”

“You should be the one pretending to hate me. I was convinced you despised me.”

“Hate you?” He glanced at her, sharp, amused. “I never hated you.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You, though? You’ve been trying very hard to convince yourself that you do.”

Her stomach flipped, and she groaned, grabbing a pillow and smacking his arm with it. “You’re a dick.”

Aemond caught her wrist easily, his grip firm but playful, tugging her just enough to pull her closer. “Careful,” he murmured smugly, “you might make me think you actually like me.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no real fight behind it.

Lying back down, she stretched, her body already sore, knowing she was going to get it in the neck from the others tomorrow.

“Oh gods, they’re going to be unbearable about this,” she muttered.

Aemond just grinned, clearly unbothered. “That’s tomorrow’s problem.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

He gave a lazy shrug, running a hand through his messy silver hair. “A little.”

For a second, Aemond propped up, fishing something out his pocket.

“What are you–”

Her voice died on her lips the second she saw what laid in his palm. The sun shaped, gold pendant she had seen at Sunspear Market earlier that day stared back. The dark gold glinted against her eyes, and she tentatively reached out to touch it.

“You—”

Aemond shrugged. But she could see he was trying to play it a little cool, to stay off the embarrassed flush to his cheeks at such a sweet gesture, “I saw you looking at it.”

She hesitated, but she was more shocked. She hadn't honestly expected something so nice, especially from him, as hard to read as he was. Such as right now. He was so composed. As if he hadn't had it in his pocket all day, waiting to give it to her.

“You bought this for me?...”

A silly question in hindsight, but she was too floored to ask anything else. And she didn't even need his reply truthfully.

Still, Aemond smirked, propping up to watch as she ran her finger over the metal, “I did, but…”

She looked up, her heart constricting, “but?...”

Aemond bit back a nervous smile, “you can wear it…if we give this a chance,” he says, vaguely gesturing between them.

Her breath caught. Not because it was unexpected, he had been pushing her in this direction all night, all trip, maybe even longer than that. But hearing him say it so simply, so confidently, so Aemond, sent something warm and unsteady rippling through her chest.

She glanced away for a second, fingers brushing the pendant absentmindedly, before letting out a slow breath. “And what exactly is… ‘this’?” she asked, her voice softer than before.

Aemond tilted his head, “this,” he murmured, “is me saying I don’t want to pretend I don’t want you anymore.”

Gods, he was good with words when he wanted to be.

Her lips parted slightly, but before she could say anything, his expression shifted, turning just a little sharper, a little more amused.

“And also, I’m realising one of my kinks might be you calling me a pretentious asshole.”

Before she could stop herself, she burst out laughing. It was unexpected, light, breaking the thick tension in the air.

“Maybe you are a pretentious asshole,” she managed between giggles.

Aemond hummed, leaning closer to brush his lips against hers, “hm, you keep up, don't you.”

She couldn't stop smiling, her cheeks hurt. And Aemond's fingers brushed her skin, reaching for the chain of the necklace, “let me.”

Lifting her hair, she raised her chin so he could clasp the pendant around her neck, the gold sitting elegantly against her chest. He hummed in appreciation and she swallowed, a shiver running down her spine at the barely-there touch.

“Shall we celebrate.”

She raised a suspicious brow. Celebrate.

A bark of laughter threatened to break out.

“Celebrate how, exactly?”

The dark looks returned to his gaze, and she gasped as he maneuvered atop her, his hand bunching up her shirt around her hips. “With you, wearing nothing but that pretty little necklace I just bought you.”

Her stomach tightened. And her body responded before she did.

And judging by the smug look on Aemond's face. He noticed.

She woke up sore, in the best way possible.

The sheets were tangled around her legs, her body still buzzing from the night before, and when she shifted slightly, the cool press of gold against her skin reminded her of exactly how they’d celebrated.

Aemond had already left the bed when she woke up, thank the gods, which meant she had enough time to collect herself before inevitably facing the others.

Black bikini, sandals slipped on and she was out straight away, her hair still tousled from how rough Aemond had been with her the night before.

Helaena, Baela, and Rhaena sat sprawled out on their towels, sunglasses perched on their noses, drinks in hand. They looked far too entertained. And they knew. Oh, they fucking knew.

“So…” Baela drawled, adjusting her sunglasses as she turned toward her. “You had an eventful night.”

She rolled her eyes, dropping onto the sand beside them, already regretting coming down here. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Rhaena scoffed, hiding a smirk behind her drink. “Oh, come on.”

Helaena, as dreamy as ever, blinked up at her, tilting her head. “You’re glowing.”

Baela snorted, finally pushing her sunglasses onto her head so she could look at her properly. And then, her gaze zeroed in. She grinned. “Oh my gods, you’re wearing it.”

Her stomach dropped. Shit.

Baela pointed at the gold sun pendant resting delicately against her collarbone, shining in the morning light. “So, Aemond buys you jewellery now?”

She groaned, tipping her head back against the sand. “I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?”

Rhaena smirked, twirling her straw between her fingers. “Not a chance.”

Helaena giggled, “I knew you didn’t hate each other.”

“Oh, I still hate him.”

Baela barked out a laugh, “so that was a hate fuck, was it?”

Rhaena snorted into her drink, nearly choking on it.

As if completely uninterested, Helaena excused herself, grabbing an empty tupperware as a beetle flew into the reeds by the stairs. Classic Hel.

Rhaena cleared her throat, “so…was it good?”

“I'm not talking about this.”

“Oh, so it was good,” Rhaena mused, eyes twinkling.

“I hate all of you.”

Baela leaned in. “You know what they say. The quiet ones are always the worst.”

Rhaena thoughtfully. “I bet he was really intense about it.”

“Oh, definitely. Control freak. Probably took his time—”

She groaned, “oh my gods, can we please change the subject?”

Helaena returned, beaming, a freshly caught beetle in her tub, “well, if it makes you feel any better, I'm happy for you.”

She peeked up at her through one squinted eye. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be happy about your brother getting laid.”

Helaena simply shrugged, smiling. “You make him less grumpy.”

Her only saving grace was that the guys were too far out in the water to hear any of this. Jace and Aegon were already trying to drown each other, waves crashing around them as they wrestled.

But Aemond stood farther out, water lapping at his waist, arms crossed, watching the spectacle with mild amusement.

She had no doubt Aemond suffered the same treatment this morning. Hounded with questions and easy ribbings. But unlike her, Aemond could silence any incessant question with a pointed glare and a well placed ‘fuck off’.

As if sensing her eyes on him, he turned, his hair sticking to his face. She watched his gaze drift to the necklace that sat snug at her collarbone, and then back up to her eyes, the faintest smirk on his face.

Maybe the rest of this holiday wouldn't be so bad.

✨ Please note ✨ I no longer do taglists. If you would updates, please follow @targaryenrealnessdarlingfics and turn on notifications!

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thebearer · 1 year ago

Text

could use a push |carmen berzatto x reader|

prompt: sometimes carmen needs persuasion to finish his tasks. sometimes you have to persuade him.

part of the carmen x social media manager au. the two other works follow me and fall into me can be found here <3

contains: smut. slight voyeurism-ish?? oral male receiving. super sweet and smutty. social media manager!reader. carmen hates doing tasks lol.

“Carmen,” Sydney turned, carrying a large tray of vegetables that needed to be prepped, expertly dodging the other chefs working on the line. Carmen gave a huff of a grunt, not bothering to look up from his own prep, too in the zone.

“Chef,” Sydney huffed, firmer this time, catching his attention when the tray smacked on the counter next to him. “Someone’s in the office for you.”

“Me?” Carmen blinked, brows pulling in a deep frown. “No, not f’me-”

“-Yes, for you, Chef-”

“-No, that’s Richie’s job. Cousin,” Carmen leaned back, shouting towards the swinging doors.

“Carmen, will you- there’s someone in the office for you. Ok? They’re here for you, not Richie.” Sydney muttered, shaking her head in annoyance.

Carmen paused, looking at Sydney. “What’re you doin’?” He asked.

“What?”

“No, what’re you doin’?” Carmen repeated, eyes narrowed at her skeptically. “No-No one should be in my office. I’m not doin’ the interviews for bussers, that’s Richie, so who’s in the office? Hm? What’s goin’ on?”

“Nothing’s goin’ on, jeez.” Sydney rolled her eyes. “There is someone in the office for you.”

“Yeah? Is it-it’s Fak? Is he fuckin’ with me? Gonna walk in there and what? Gonna spray some shit on me like we’re fuckin’ fourteen-”

“-What? No.” Sydney frowned. “I don’t- Look, I was told not to tell you who’s in there because it’s a surprise, ok? It’s not bad. Just- Can you go in there? I don’t know why they asked me to do this, but I’m clearly not good at the whole surprise thing, so just do me a favor and go see for yourself.”

Carmen huffed, wiping his hands on the clean towel next to him, craning to see his office from his spot. He looked at Sydney with a deadpan expression. “If I get sprayed with some shit, Chef.”

Sydney rolled her eyes in annoyance, turning to pass the prep to the chef beside her. Carmen looked carefully to see if anyone around him was lurking, hiding in the shadows to watch him get ambushed so they could have a laugh. He felt like he was twelve again, Richie and Mikey always fucking with him so he’d get red faced and embarrassed just so they could laugh at him.

Twisting the knob to the office, Carmen let the door fall open before he stepped towards it. Thankfully, there were no signs of shit falling from the ceiling, nobody hiding in the shadows. Instead, sitting in his office chair was a much more pleasant surprise- you.

“Hey,” Carmen’s face lit up, lips curling in a greeting. “What- I didn’t know you were comin’ today.”

“I decided to surprise you.” You smiled back. “Ambush you, really.”

“Ambush?” Carmen snorted lightly, shutting the door behind him. “What’re you ambushin’ me for?”

You stood, letting your arms wrap around his waist in greeting, lips brushing his before he took your mouth in his fully, kissing you sweetly just like he had this morning. “Mm,” You sighed, pulling back quicker than Carmen would have liked.

“I came to ambush you for content.” You batted your eyes sweetly at him, feeling his shoulders fall under your touch. “Because you were supposed to let me shoot the new menu items this week and you still haven’t.”

“Baby,” Carmen huffed, pulling a hand away from the small of your back to rub over his forehead. “I-I don’t- Why do I have to be in them?”

“Because people want to see you, Carm.” You glared at him lightly. “They see Marcus and Tina and Sydney all the time, and they want to see you too. You’re the head chef.”

“Yeah, but-but why? It’s so fuckin’ stupid.” Carmen grumbled, huffy already, the start of a bickering fight you’d had a million times before. To say Carmen was camera shy was an understatement.

“Why is it stupid?” You put your hands on your hips. “People want to feel connected. They want an inside look. They want to feel like they know you and they’re a part of something. That’s what gets people to come.” It was the same argument, every time. Carmen knew it, he understood it, he just… Well, he didn’t like it.

“I’ll prompt you on everything to say,” You grabbed at him, trying to coo at him, coax him into finally letting him do your job. It was easier before the two of you were dating, before he was comfortable, when he’d suck it up in the name of professionalism.

“All you have to do is cook me a dish, and answer my questions, and that’s it! It’ll be done in no time, and you can pick whichever one you want from the summer menu.” You ran a hand soothingly down his arm, over his toned bicep, trying not to drool at the definition.

You could feel Carmen swaying already, turning into your touch, teetering on relenting. “Does it have to be a video?” Carmen grumbled, looking at you with pleading eyes. “‘M already behind and I-I need to do some prep, and-”

“-Don’t lie to me.” You frown at him. “I asked Sydney before and she said you were all caught up for the day. Ahead, actually.” You lifted a brow in challenge.

Carmen huffed, turning to look over his shoulder, cursing Sydney in his head. “I know your games, Berzatto.” You poked his tummy lightly, trying to lighten his mood with playfulness. The last thing you needed was him to be so sulky during the filming, ruining the content. “Know all your tricks, so don’t even try them.”

Carmen let out a half huff, lips pursing in a tight line in defeat. He was so pouty, petulant, really, but you decided against teasing him about it.

“One video?” Your hand slid up his chest, cupping his cheek gently, pulling his eyes back to yours, heart fluttering when his gaze was on you. “One video and… and I’ll make it up to you.”

Carmen’s heart stuttered, leaping with excitement he tried to swallow down. “Yeah? Make it up to me how?” He muttered, voice dropping low to a near gravel.

Your lips twitched, pulling at the corners of your mouth in a wicked, triumphant smile. “If you do the video for me today,” You purred, slowly pulling away, slinking towards the door. “I’ll owe you something later. Whatever you want.” Your lashes batted in suggestive playfulness.

Carmen’s palms itched with excitement, swallowing around the growing lump in his throat. “Yeah?” He tried to keep his voice steady, keep it from cracking to show his eagerness. “W-What’d you have in mind?”

You shrugged sweetly, clicking the lock on the door. “Oh, that’ll be up to you, Chef.” You grinned, Carmen’s posture going rigid with thrill.

“But if you promise after this you’ll do my video,” You stepped towards him, toe to toe with each other, though neither touched the other. “I’ll give you a little taste of what I had in mind for later.”

Carmen swallowed, nodding furiously. He’d blame the blood rushing from his brain to his cock as the reason he agreed so easily, the reason he was persuaded without much fight. You lifted your brows in an amused question.

“Yeah? You’ll do it for me?” You tilted your head to the side gently.

Carmen nodded, a flush creeping up his neck. “Yes, fuck, yeah. I-I’ll do it.”

You grinned, sliding your hands down his arms, towards his torso. “Thank you, baby.” You hummed sweetly. “You want me to give you a little sneak peek of what I had in mind for tonight? A little thank you for now?”

Carmen bobbed his head furiously, swallowing a shudder when your hands slid over his lower belly, slowly towards his waistband. “You want me to give you a little taste then?” You whispered, a purr in your tone that had Carmen throbbing, aching behind the zipper of his jeans.

“Please,” Carmen croaked, jaw tight trying desperately to stay quiet.

You grinned triumphantly, hand sliding and cupping over his bulge, palming him through his jeans. “Alright, since you asked so nicely.” You batted your lashes at him, holding his gaze as you sank to your knees in front of him. “I’ll give you a taste.”

Carmen’s head tipped back in pleasure, swallowing a breathy moan that threatened to escape, eyes darting around the small space of his office. The door was locked, the blinds shut, but still he had a nagging fear that Richie or Sweeps or someone would bust through the door, catching the two of you in the act. His veins pricked with tingling excitement at the thought, heartbeat thudding in his ears when he looked down at you through his lashes, watching you pull him from his boxers, pumping his length.

“Mm,” You moaned quietly, soft lips pressing even softer, feather-like kisses up his shaft.

“Do-Don’t tease me, baby.” Carmen whispered, voice tight in a groan. You looked up at him innocently, eyes rounded sweetly. “Please.” Carmen added.

“I won’t.” Your breath ghosted over his cock, leaving him shivering at the sensation. The pad of your thumb swiping over his already leaking head, spreading his release around. “I’ll make it quick. Just relax, Carm. I’ve got you.”

Carmen slid a hand over his mouth, muffling a moan when you licked a stripe up the underside of his cock, tongue swirling around the head. His teeth sank into his knuckles, head tipping back towards the ceiling at the sensation.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fu-uck.” Carmen muttered, your free hand pumping his length, slowly taking his tip past your warm lips. Your eyes stayed on him the entire time, rounded and eager to please, eager to watch him be pleased.

Carmen’s free hand moved to the top of your head, cradling it gently as you sucked him off, cupping his balls and massaging them. You’d always been so good at this. He’d told you that from the beginning, heart nearly exploding when you’d smiled sheepishly and asked him, “really?” in the sweetest voice he’d ever heard.

From then on, Carmen had never failed to sing your praises- in anything you did, but especially when you gave him head. Now, he fought back the urge to groan loudly, to look down at you and say filthy, sweet things that would have you squirming, thighs rubbing together. Anywhere else but here, he would have, but he couldn’t risk the others hearing.

Instead, he moved his hand to cup your cheek, hollowed and full with his length, thumb brushing over your cheek bone sweetly. “You’re makin’ me feel so fuckin’ good, baby. S-So fuckin’ good.” Carmen rasped, clenching his hips to keep them from bucking when you moaned around his lengths, sending shockwaves of pleasure straight to his core. He was close, you both knew it.

You pressed the pad of your thumb gently down the seam of his balls, hitting a sweet spot Carmen didn’t even know existed until he met you, a breathy whine of a moan catching in his throat.

“‘M close, baby. “M- Like really fuckin’ close.” Carmen whispered, brain beginning to fog, ears starting to buzz with a dull ringing that always came with his orgasms.

You picked up speed, head bobbing at a fast rate, up and down his length, swallowing him further and further, gagging when you took him a little too far. You always looked at him with embarrassment, a little sheepish when you’d do that, like he didn’t beg for you to do it again, like he didn’t bust every time you did.

“Shit, shit, shit, ‘M-” Carmen’s mouth fell open dumbly, eyes blowing and glazing with ecstasy, a strangled gasp and moan filling the room as he came, spilling his load down your throat. You kept pumping him through it, milking his length onto your tongue, hot release onto your taste buds while his body shook with pleasure.

Carmen’s shoulders heaved, rounding with exhausted pleasure as he slowly came down off his high. You waited until he looked back at you, eyes meeting yours to swallow. Carmen nearly fainted right then and there at the sight.

Thirty minutes later, you were set up with your camera, the two of you giggly and sweet in your own corner of the kitchen, while Carmen eagerly filmed your video. Even feeding you a bite when he was finished with the dish, beaming at your praise.

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hysteria-things · 1 year ago

Note

REQ! I was listening to closer chainsmokers and it reminded me of chris.. 🫣

CLOSER

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: sub(ish)/soft dom!chris x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: chris hasn’t had sex in a hot minute, and he’s getting sexually frustrated. even his own brothers nag him about it when they’re at the bar… and then he sees you.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: SMUTTY, drinking, dry humping, palming, p in v, stomach bulge, overstimulation, slight spanking/grabbing

ASSUME YOU’RE ON THE PILL!

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1,213

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞:

THANK YOU FOR 2,000 FOLLOWERS I WANT TO GIVE YOU GUYS SMOOCHES SO BAD🫶

they’re set to be twenty-one in this!

the modernness of the hotel restaurant makes it seem fancier than it is. chris needs an alcoholic beverage, so he’s sat at the bar waiting for his drink.

“thanks,” he says to the bartender, chugging it in a few seconds.

he’s been annoyed lately, and as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, it’s because he hasn’t been getting as much action recently. even his brothers pointed it out, and matt’s voice still rings in his head.

“you need to get laid, man. we’re on vacation. find a pretty girl and do your thing; you’re long overdue.”

he sighs, dragging his hands on his face. then, a laugh fills his ear. he turns his head to the source.

you’re sitting just a few seats down, laughing with your girls and clinking drinks. his eyes scan your body that’s dressed in a tight dress and some high heels.

you have a full face of makeup on, and jewelry decorating your ears and neck.

licking his lips, he clenches the empty cup tightly in his hands. it’s humiliating, to say the least, but his dick twitches. you’re just so beautiful.

one of your friends catches him, and she taps you on the shoulder and points to chris. he clears his throat, quickly turning the other way.

you turn your head to where she’s pointing and look back at her. “what?” you question.

“he was eye-fucking you, girl.” your other friend says, wiggling her eyebrows. “you should talk to him.”

you chuckle. “that’s silly.”

“it’s been too long since you’ve been dicked down.” she says, getting up from the barstool and dragging you off your own. “go. shoo, shoo!”

she pushes you to him, annoyingly tutting before walking over and leaning against the bar. “can i have a tray of tequila shots, please.” you ask, eyeing the handsome boy next to you.

he adjusts his shirt. “i like your tattoo.”

you glance down at the heart tattoo you have on your shoulder. something cute you got when you’ve turned eighteen. “thank you.”

the bartender brings you the tray, but you stay put. “what’re you doing here?” you ask, twirling your hair when he finally makes eye contact.

he stares at your lips. “a holiday with my brothers. you?”

you point behind you. “my friend’s wedding.”

you turn to your two friends to see that they’re whispering, nodding at you, giving you the okay to leave with him.

he smirks when you take two shots off the tray and down them. you grab his hand so you can lead the way.

obviously, he doesn’t question anything.

you walk to the hotel parking lot and go to where your range rover is.

the two of you give each other those eyes, and chris can’t help but get hard at the sight of it. you look down and smirk.

you open the back door and push him inside, his back leaning against the door on the opposite side.

chest heaving, his body fills with adrenaline when you shut the door behind you and lift your dress to teasingly take down your underwear.

he can’t say words, he can only admire you and your actions. he’s been waiting to do this for too long.

you unbuckle his pants and slide them down, underwear still on. straddling his lap still in your stilettos, you grind your bare pussy onto his clothed dick.

he exhales shakily, grabbing your hips to guide yourself harder onto his erection.

the way his tip brushes on your clit has him moaning underneath you, the same coming from you.

you grab his shoulders and lean in, your lips hovering centimeters away from his. “i-i never got your name.” he stammers between groans.

you smile. “y/n.”

“i’m chri— oh.” he’s cut off when you start to palm him, still rutting your hips.

“what’s that?”

“chri— mm.” you rub harder, feeling his twitching as you grab and caress his dick.

“chris?”

“y-yeah. f-fuck.” he grunts, thrusting into your hand and seeping his cum through his boxers. you purse your lips, pulling down his undergarments so they rest on his thighs. you’re so wet, and you want him inside you. bad.

“it’s nice to meet you, chris,” you whisper, connecting your lips with his as you align yourself with him. you underestimated how huge he was, and you whine in the kiss.

you need to spread your legs wider to fit him inside you.

you moan softly, bouncing on him with your mouths grazing each other, lips red from the desirable need you have for him. he’s like a magnet, pulling you closer and not wanting to stop.

your heart pounds in your chest, your noses sliding against one another. he feels so good.

his hands run gently up your back, eyes not leaving the bulge that’s protruding in your tummy. this has never happened to you before, and you scream-like moan when you feel it each time you plop yourself back on him.

“so big,” you whine, making out with him as your tongues intertwine.

“i’m cumming!” you exclaim, throwing your head back when his tip slides in repeatedly and touches your g-spot.

cum drips out of your pussy, spilling onto your thighs and his base smoothly. he moans at the sight.

the windows fog up as the car rocks, and the slap of your ass on his thighs can be heard along with your high-pitched moans. he bites the tattoo on your shoulder, leaving a red and purple mark on it.

your legs shake violently, but you don’t stop. instead, you bounce harder and faster. “sh-shit, s-slow down.”

“i can’t!” you squeal, completely drunk from the way his dick feels. the way it bulges has you clenching already, your walls getting used to the shape of him.

he’s starting to feel overstimulated, swollen from the way you’re stimulating not only him; but yourself.

“y-your cock feels so good! i lo— i love it too much!” his hands grab onto your hips, guiding you down at just the right angle that has your eyes crossing and your brain feeling foggy from the pleasure.

chris chuckles. “i-i’m not gonna last much longer.”

“i don’t care. i ju-just need you inside me, please.” you whimper, starting to get sloppy when your orgasm approaches. you try to kiss him again, but your mouth is wide open as babbles and noises come out. “oh. fu— so go-od… so good!”

brunette strands stick to his head from sweating, licking his lips when he starts twitching once again. “i’m gonna cum, gorgeous.” he says, giving your ass a soft slap before gripping it. “you want it all, don’t you, sweet thing?”

“yes, yes, yes!” you chant, slumping forward when your release gushes around him like the last time. “i-i need it. please, cum. p-please.”

when you feel his cum paint your walls, you sigh of relief. you try to keep bouncing, but he holds you still and whispers sweet nothings in your ear.

he lifts you off of him, placing you back down so he can hold you close as he rubs your back in a calming manner.

not knowing how much time passed, you guys lay there in comfortable silence. it’s like time didn’t pass at all, as if you’re never getting older.

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

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#chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo imagine #sturniolo smut #sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo smut #✎ ⤾ haleigh’s requests!

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theonottsbxtch · 4 months ago

Text

BE MY MISTAKE | CL16

an: before you guys get mad at me for this one i swear to god it was @iimplicitt's request. well for context she said "you would cook some good angst to this" so i did. anyway dont hate me ily x

wc: 5.1k

warnings: smutty-ish

SHE ALWAYS LEFT BEFORE THE SUN.

He never asked her to stay.

It was always the same—her slipping out of his sheets, out of his arms, out of his life, and him lying there, watching the ghost of her linger in the hollow space she left behind. The scent of her perfume on his pillow. The warmth of her skin fading from his. He never reached for her as she went, never called her name, never let the words stay pass his lips. Because she never would.

She was someone else’s.

Charles Leclerc had never felt more like a man made of glass than when she was around—fragile, transparent, waiting for the inevitable shatter. He used to think he was invincible, that he could survive anything. He had walked away from burning cars, from metal twisted around his body like a vice, from crashes that should have left him dead. But she was the wreckage he could never crawl out of.

She worked for another team. He didn’t even know how it had started, only that it had. Maybe it was the way she looked at him across the paddock, something unreadable in her eyes, something dangerous. Maybe it was how she touched him, like she needed him more than air but never enough to stay. Maybe it was the way she said his name, soft and aching, only ever in the dark, only ever when no one else could hear.

Maybe it was the way she always left.

The hotel room door clicked shut behind her, and Charles let out a slow, unsteady breath, staring at the ceiling. His body still burned with her touch, but his chest felt hollow. He reached blindly for the half-empty glass of whiskey on the nightstand and downed what was left, letting the burn spread through him. Maybe if he drank enough, he wouldn’t feel the phantom of her hands on his skin. Maybe if he closed his eyes, he wouldn’t see the imprint of her smile, her swollen lips, her wedding ring glinting in the dim light.

She never took it off.

He hated himself for wanting her. Hated himself for letting her come back every time, for answering the phone, for opening the door, for letting her press her mouth to his like she needed him, like he was something more than just her mistake.

But most of all, he hated that no matter how many times she left—he still waited for her to come back.

He told himself he wouldn’t do this again.

He told himself that every time.

And yet, when she called, he answered. When she knocked, he opened the door. When she kissed him, he let himself believe, for just a moment, that it meant something. That he wasn’t just the thing she used to feel alive before she went back to the life she chose.

Charles sat up, running a hand over his face. The room smelled of her—perfume and sweat and something unmistakably hers. He hated that he could pick her scent out of a crowd, that he’d recognise the way she sighed against his skin in the dark, the way her nails dug into his shoulders when she whispered his name. It was pathetic, really, how little self-respect he had left when it came to her.

The sheets were still warm where she’d been. He should get up, shower, wash her off him before she became something permanent. But instead, he reached for his phone.

Nothing.

She never texted. Never called unless she wanted something. He was the one left with the aftermath, the one left trying to pretend none of it happened when he saw her across the paddock, standing next to her husband, smiling like she hadn’t had Charles’ hands on her body hours before.

He groaned, tilting his head back against the headboard, eyes closing as he exhaled sharply. He needed to get out of this. Out of her.

But he knew he wouldn’t.

He thought about the way she looked at him as she dressed, back turned, fingers deftly fastening the buttons of her blouse, fixing her wedding ring like it had never been budged. He thought about how she never kissed him goodbye. How she never said thank you or sorry or this is the last time.

Maybe she knew it never would be.

His head throbbed as he forced himself to stand, dragging himself to the window. The city stretched out below, neon lights bleeding into the night, a thousand strangers living a thousand different lives. He wondered what it would be like to be one of them. To be someone who had never met her. Someone who didn’t know what it felt like to be ruined by the same hands that held him together.

The rain had started again, soft against the glass. He watched as a black cab pulled away from the hotel entrance below, the silhouette of a woman barely visible in the backseat.

She never looked back.

Neither did he.

But Christ, did he want to.

The city was different, but the story was the same.

A new Grand Prix. A new hotel. A new number on the door. But it didn’t matter. Nothing ever changed, not really.

Charles had told himself he wouldn’t answer. He’d stared at the message on his phone for far too long, fingers tightening around the glass of whiskey he’d been nursing since he got back from the track. He should have ignored it. Should have thrown his phone across the room, let it smash into the wall, let the silence settle where she had lodged herself in his bones.

But of course, he didn’t.

Instead, he’d stubbed out his cigarette - the one he only smoked because of her, finished his drink in one swallow, and gone to shower.

Now he stood in front of the hotel mirror, dragging a hand through his damp hair, fixing the collar of his shirt like any of it mattered. Like she would notice. Like she would even care. He looked tired. The kind of tired that sleep wouldn’t fix. Hollow eyes, sharp cheekbones, a mouth set in something like resignation. He had seen this version of himself before. He hated him.

His phone buzzed.

Here.

One word. No greeting, no hesitation.

His heart kicked against his ribs anyway.

A knock at the door, sharp and impatient. He swallowed, straightened his spine, ran his tongue over his teeth as if that would erase the cigarette smoke and bad decisions. Then he opened the door.

She didn’t speak. She never did, not at first. Just stepped past him, the scent of rain and something expensive clinging to her skin. She wasn’t dressed for him—she never was. The same crisp white blouse, the same heels, her hair still pinned up from the paddock. She looked untouched. Unbothered. Like she hadn’t been sitting at dinner with her husband an hour ago, pretending she wasn’t about to slip into another man’s bed.

His bed.

Charles closed the door. Watched her move through the room like she’d been here a hundred times before. She had.

She didn’t look at him. Not properly. Not like he wanted her to.

Instead, she reached for him.

And that’s when he knew.

She only touched him like this when she didn’t want to think. When she needed to forget.

And fuck, it ruined him, how easily he let her.

Her hands were on him before he could speak. Before he could ask her why she was here, why she kept doing this to him, why he kept letting her.

Her fingers curled into the collar of his shirt, tugging him down, and then her mouth was on his—hot, desperate, tasting like red wine and something else, something bitter. It was always like this. No hesitation, no words, no softness. She kissed him like she was trying to erase something, like if she pressed hard enough, bit deep enough, she could make herself disappear.

Charles let her.

He always did.

His hands found her waist, sliding beneath the fabric of her blouse, fingers splaying over warm skin. He felt her shiver, the sharp inhale against his lips, but she didn’t stop him. She never did.

He hated himself for how easily he fell into this. For how much he wanted it.

Her nails scraped against the back of his neck as she deepened the kiss, as her body pressed against his, as she backed him towards the bed like she was the one in control. Maybe she was. Maybe she always had been.

She pushed his jacket off his shoulders, let it hit the floor, her fingers already at the buttons of his shirt. His own hands were working at the zip of her skirt, dragging the fabric down her hips, his breathing ragged, unsteady. He felt drunk, but he only had drank a glass of whiskey.

It was her. It was always her.

She stepped out of the skirt, kicked off her heels, and he let himself take her in—bare legs, flushed skin, the silver band on her left hand catching in the dim light.

He reached for her wrist before he could stop himself. Held it between them. Stared at the ring like it was a loaded gun.

She didn’t say anything. Just pulled her hand from his grip and kissed him again, harder this time, as if that would make him forget.

It wouldn't.

But he still let her push him down onto the bed.

It was another Grand Prix.

This time, she wasn’t coming to him.

He was crawling to her.

Charles told himself he wouldn’t. He told himself he was done. That last time had been exactly that—the last time. But here he was, standing outside her hotel room, hands shaking at his sides, stomach twisted into something sick and self-loathing.

He didn’t even know why he was here.

No, that was a lie.

He was here because he needed her. Because she had infected him like a disease, and now he was feverish, restless, his skin too tight, his thoughts too loud. He had tried to forget her. Tried to drown her out with whisky and faceless women, with the roar of the engine and the blur of a track at 200mph. None of it worked. None of it ever worked.

So here he was.

Pathetic.

He lifted a fist, knocked once. Then again. A part of him prayed she wouldn’t answer. That she’d send him away, force him to break this cycle before it swallowed him whole.

The door opened.

And there she was.

Barefoot, wrapped in a crimson silk dressing gown, hair still damp from the shower. She looked at him like she was surprised, like she hadn’t expected him to be the one on her doorstep this time.

He swallowed, throat dry, heart hammering against his ribs.

“Charles.”

His name on her lips was quieter than he expected. He wondered if her husband had just called her. If she’d been on the phone with him minutes before Charles knocked, telling him she loved him, that she’d see him when she got home. The thought made something ugly curl in his chest.

She didn’t move to let him in. Just stood there, watching him with those unreadable eyes.

He should leave. He should.

Instead, he exhaled sharply and said, “Let me in.”

A beat of silence.

Then, without a word, she stepped aside.

The door clicked shut behind him, sealing them inside, sealing him inside this mistake—this cycle, this sickness, this thing that had its claws buried so deep inside him he wasn’t sure he’d ever claw his way free.

She didn’t speak. She never did, not at first. Just stepped closer, the silk of her dressing gown brushing against his shirt and jacket, her scent filling the space between them. His fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He should say something. Should tell her this was a bad idea, that he hadn’t meant to come, that he’d turned the wrong way in the hotel corridor and ended up outside her door by accident.

But they both knew that wasn’t true.

Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with slow, practiced ease. He let her, standing there like some helpless fucking idiot, like this wasn’t exactly what he wanted, exactly what he had been craving for the past week.

Her lips brushed the side of his jaw, warm and soft and deliberate. He exhaled sharply through his nose, tilting his head back before he could stop himself, giving her space to kiss his throat, to press her mouth to the sensitive spot just below his ear.

He hated himself.

Hated the way his hands finally moved, grabbing her waist, pulling her into him, crushing her body against his. Hated how his lips found hers with something desperate, bruising, the kind of kiss that tasted like anger and surrender all at once.

Her dressing gown loosened beneath his fingers, the silk slipping from her shoulders, pooling onto the floor like water.

And fuck, he was already too far gone.

She slipped off his shirt and jacket while he kicked off his shoes.

He lifted her, felt her legs wrap around his waist, stumbled towards the bed with his mouth still on hers, his body already burning, already aching. His head was full of static, of her, of the way her fingers pulled at his hair, of the soft, broken noises escaping her lips as he laid her down beneath him.

She was everywhere. Under his hands, against his skin, in his lungs. And yet, she wasn’t his.

Would never be his.

She gasped his name as his lips moved to her throat, and something twisted inside him, something dark and miserable, something that made him press harder, bite deeper, knowing that by morning, any mark he left would be gone. Hidden. Forgotten.

Just like he would be.

But still, he gave her everything.

Even as he hated himself for it.

His hands dragged down the length of her body, rough, unsteady, worshipping something he had no right to touch.

She arched beneath him, breathless, fingers tangled in his hair, urging him closer, deeper, more. And fuck, he gave it to her. Gave her everything she wanted, everything she took without asking, without hesitation. His mouth moved down her neck, down her collarbone, down lower still, teeth and tongue and heat, his hands following, gripping her thighs, parting them, spreading her open for him like she was his.

She wasn’t.

But she let him pretend.

His name fell from her lips in a whisper, in a gasp, in a moan that made his blood run hot and cold all at once. He hated it. Hated that she sounded like she needed him, like this was something more than just a mistake she would bury beneath crisp white sheets and a silver wedding ring. He haphazardly pulled off his trousers and boxers as she whimpered in his ear.

His mouth found her again, hands gripping, pulling, taking. She was silk and fire and something devastatingly beautiful, and he wanted to ruin her the way she had ruined him.

He was hard for her already, painfully so, and she knew it, smirking against his lips as she rolled her hips beneath him, teasing, taunting, killing him slowly. His fingers dug into her skin, his breath coming short, sharp.

She reached for him, wrapped a hand around him, and he swore under his breath, forehead pressing to her shoulder as her fingers worked him over, slow, deliberate, like she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

She did.

But this wasn’t hers to keep.

He tore her hand away, pinned it above her head, held her there beneath him like that would make any difference, like she wouldn’t be slipping back into her husband’s arms in less than twenty-four hours.

She didn’t care.

And neither did he—not when she hooked a leg around his hip, not when she pulled him closer, not when he sank into her with a groan that tasted like defeat.

She gasped, fingers tightening in his hair, nails raking down his back, dragging him deeper, until there was nothing left of him but this.

He fucked her like he needed her. Like she wasn’t just a mistake he would regret the second he came down from this high.

And that was the worst part.

Because maybe, just maybe—

He did need her.

Her body took him like it was made for him.

Soft, hot, open—pulling him in, keeping him there, keeping him hers. Charles groaned, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his hips rolling into hers in slow, deliberate thrusts. He should take his time, should make this last, should memorise the way she feels around him because he knows—he knows—she won’t let him have this much longer.

But she’s greedy tonight. Nails scratching down his back, heels digging into his spine, dragging him deeper, gasping against his lips like she’s the one who’s desperate. Like she’s the one who needs this.

She doesn’t.

She’ll go home after this. Go back to the man who kisses her goodnight, who sleeps beside her without knowing she still smells like someone else.

But here, right now, she’s his.

Charles presses his palm to the back of her thigh, spreading her wider, driving into her harder, his breath ragged, his chest tight. He hears the soft whimper she tries to swallow, feels the way her body tightens around him, how her fingers clutch at him like she doesn’t want to let go.

And for a second, just a second, he lets himself believe it.

He lets himself think that maybe, if he fucks her good enough, if he makes her feel enough, she’ll stay.

That this time, when the morning comes, she won’t make him slip out of her bed without a word. That she won’t fix her wedding ring the second she’s dressed, acting like none of this ever happened.

But she will.

She always will.

The thought makes something vicious twist inside him, and he groans against her throat, snapping his hips faster, chasing that inevitable fall, dragging her over the edge with him. She cries out softly, her back arching, fingers clawing at his shoulders, her body shuddering around him, pulling him under.

He follows her down.

And then it’s over.

Silence settles over them, thick, suffocating.

Charles rolls onto his back, dragging a hand down his face, breath still uneven, chest rising and falling too fast. He hears her shifting beside him, the rustle of sheets, the slow inhale and exhale as she comes down from it, too.

Neither of them speak.

They never do, not afterwards.

She stares at the ceiling, her lips slightly parted, her hair a mess against the pillow. He looks at her out of the corner of his eye, taking in the marks he’s left on her skin—the red blooming across her neck, the crescent moons on her hips. Temporary proof that he was here. That she was his.

Even though she never really was.

He closed his eyes, swallowing the bitter taste in his throat, already hating himself for what he’s done. For what he keeps doing.

And worst of all—

For knowing that when she calls him again, he’ll still answer.

The silence between them stretched long and heavy, broken only by the slow, measured rhythm of their breathing.

Charles lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, one arm draped over his forehead like that would block out the reality of where he was, of what he’d just done. Of what he’d keep doing. Beside him, she shifted, rolling onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. He felt her looking at him. Studying him.

He turned his head, met her gaze. “What?” His voice was rough, still thick with the remnants of her.

She shrugged, something unreadable flickering across her face. “Nothing.”

That was the thing with her—she never gave him much. He’d spent months tangled up in her sheets, his hands on her body, his mouth whispering her name against her skin, but when it came to anything real, anything deep, she held him at arm’s length.

And maybe that was fair.

Because what could they really talk about?

He knew how she sounded when she came undone beneath him, knew the little hitch in her breath when he kissed the side of her knee, knew the exact way her fingers twisted in the sheets when she was close. But he didn’t know her favourite song. Didn’t know if she preferred tea or coffee in the morning, didn’t know if she ever painted her nails herself or if they were always done for her.

Didn’t know if she ever thought about him when she was home.

So he said nothing.

Instead, he let his gaze drop, tracing the curve of her shoulder, the way her bare skin glowed in the low light. His eyes caught on the dressing gown she’d discarded on the floor earlier, the deep burgundy silk pooling like blood against the carpet.

“That was nice,” he murmured, nodding towards it.

She followed his gaze, then looked back at him. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “My husband bought it for me. Do you like it?”

The words landed like a punch to the ribs.

Charles’s stomach turned, his body tensing, nausea curling in the back of his throat.

Of course he did.

Of course the man she went home to every night, the man she shared a life with, the man who got to love her in the light, had been the one to pick out something that Charles had stripped off her without a second thought.

Something meant for him.

He swallowed, forcing a smirk, though it felt like acid in his mouth. “Bet he didn’t think you’d be wearing it for me.”

She just looked at him. Not smiling, not frowning. Just looking.

Then, she rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling once more.

And Charles lay there, staring at her, feeling like he might be sick.

After a long moment, Charles sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his head falling into his hands for a moment before he forced himself to move. His body ached—not from the race, not from the adrenaline of the track, but from her. From the way she had unraveled him, used him up, left him hollow.

He reached for his boxers, pulling them on with slow, deliberate movements, his fingers dragging through his hair, trying to shake off the weight pressing down on him. His shirt was crumpled on the floor, buttons undone, collar twisted. He grabbed it anyway, slipping it over his shoulders, not bothering to do it up.

Behind him, she shifted, and he stilled, waiting.

Waiting for her to say something.

Stay.

Don’t go.

Anything.

But she didn’t.

Instead, he heard the soft click of her phone unlocking, the quiet tap of her fingers against the screen.

He turned, just enough to see her lying on her back, bathed in the dim glow of her phone, scrolling through messages, already a million miles away from him.

Charles clenched his jaw, swallowing against the bitter taste rising in his throat.

She wasn’t his.

She never had been.

And yet, some pathetic part of him still hoped. Still wanted.

Dragging a hand down his face, he stood, shoving his legs into his trousers.. He moved slower than he needed to, lingering, waiting for her to look up.

But she didn’t.

She was lost in a world he would never be part of, replying to messages he would never see, checking the time like she had somewhere else to be. Someone else waiting for her.

His chest tightened, a cruel, hollow ache settling beneath his ribs.

He forced a smirk—forced himself to pretend he didn’t care.

“Well,” he muttered, pulling on his jacket, the leather stiff against his skin. “This has been fun.”

She hummed in response, not even looking up.

Not even fucking looking at him.

That was it, then.

No goodbye. No lingering kiss. No stay just a little longer.

Just silence.

Charles swallowed, turning towards the door, his fingers curling into a fist at his side.

He left without another word.

And when the door clicked shut behind him, it sounded a hell of a lot like the end of something he’d never really had in the first place.

Charles stepped out into the night, the air thick with the smell of petrol and damp tarmac. The city hummed around him—streetlights casting long, ghostly shadows, the distant sound of laughter spilling from the hotel bar. Life carrying on as if nothing had happened.

As if he hadn’t just let her ruin him all over again.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply, shoving his fingers through his hair as he walked towards the valet stand. The kid behind the counter barely looked old enough to drive, let alone handle the kind of car Charles had left with him.

“The black Ferrari,” Charles muttered, voice rough. The kid nodded, hurrying off, and a minute later, the low, familiar growl of his SF90 filled the air.

Charles slid into the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel for a second before starting the engine, the roar vibrating through his bones. He pulled away from the curb, the city blurring past him, neon signs flashing against the black glass of his dashboard.

He drove with one hand, the other pressed to his lips, his mind stuck in a loop, replaying the last hour.

The way she hadn’t said stay. The way she’d barely looked at him as he left.

The way she’d smiled when she told him her husband had bought her that slip.

His throat tightened, his grip on the wheel clenching.

Of all the things she’d ever said to him, that was the thing that wouldn’t leave him alone. That soft, almost absentminded admission. Like it had meant nothing to her. Like it wasn’t a knife to his ribs, twisted cruelly as he lay beside her, still warm from her touch.

The car ate up the road, the speedometer ticking higher, the streets emptying as he left the city behind. The headlights cut through the darkness, the silence pressing in on him, thick, suffocating.

Then, slowly, his vision blurred.

He barely noticed at first, the burn in his eyes sharp, his throat aching, his breath coming shorter. He blinked, tried to swallow it down, but it came anyway.

Tears slipping down his face, one after another, hot and heavy, a slow, steady stream of something he’d spent months trying to ignore.

He shook his head, sniffed, gritted his teeth, gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles went white.

But it wasn’t stopping.

And before he could think, before he could stop himself, he slammed his foot on the brake, the tyres screeching against the asphalt as he veered onto the shoulder, the car shuddering to a halt.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Charles pressed his forehead to the wheel, his whole body trembling, his breath coming in short, shuddering gasps. He covered his face with one hand, trying to quiet the sobs tearing out of him, but it was no use.

He hated himself.

Hated what he had let her do to him.

Hated that even now, even now, if she called him, if she whispered his name the way she did when she wanted something from him—

He’d go crawling back.

A fresh wave of anger surged through him, self-loathing so thick it made him shake. He slammed his palm against the wheel once, twice, his chest heaving.

Then, through gritted teeth, through ragged, gut-wrenching sobs, he choked out—

"Fuck."

The word broke as it left him, shattering in the empty car, in the empty road, in the empty fucking life he had left himself with.

And for the first time, Charles realised—

She wasn’t the one ruining him.

He was doing it all by himself.

Charles couldn’t fucking breathe.

His chest was caving in, ribs tightening like a vice, lungs burning as if he’d just done fifty laps without a single breath. His forehead was still pressed to the steering wheel, his whole body trembling, fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms.

The tears wouldn’t stop.

They kept coming, harder, faster, falling thick and hot down his face, catching in the corners of his mouth, dripping onto the leather of his seat. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, his throat raw, his skin burning, his heart pounding too fast, too loud, drowning out every rational thought.

Get it together. Get a fucking grip.

But he couldn’t.

Because it wasn’t just her.

It was everything.

It was the fact that every other driver on the grid had someone waiting for them at the end of a race. Girlfriends in the paddock, wives in the motorhomes, kids running into their arms after they stepped off the podium. Their lives were moving forward, settling into something steady, something real.

And Charles?

Charles had her.

A woman who wasn’t even his.

A woman who would never be his.

And he was getting older. Fuck, he was getting older. The sport that had once been his entire life was starting to feel different, like the clock was ticking down, like he was running out of time. He’d spent years thinking he had plenty of it—plenty of time to fall in love, plenty of time to have something real, plenty of time to figure it all out.

But here he was.

Twenty-seven years old. Nothing to show for it.

No wife. No kids. No one to go home to.

Just a woman with a ring on her finger that another man had put there.

His breath hitched, panic creeping in, a crushing weight settling on his chest. His fingers scrambled for the collar of his shirt, tugging at it like he was suffocating, like the car was too fucking small, the air too thin. He gasped, trying to force the breath into his lungs, but it wasn’t working. His vision swam, his ears ringing, his hands shaking so hard he had to squeeze them into fists.

He let out a ragged, broken noise, somewhere between a sob and a curse, slamming his palm against the wheel again.

What the fuck was he doing?

What the fuck had he done to himself?

His whole life, he’d thought he was chasing something. A future, a career, a love worth waiting for. But he wasn’t chasing anything.

He was stuck.

Trapped in a cycle of hotel rooms and stolen touches, of whispered lies and cheap, meaningless fucks.

And it hit him, all at once, like a punch to the gut.

She wasn’t his mistake.

He was hers.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @n0vazsq @dying-inside-but-its-classy @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @luvstappen

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gallusrostromegalus · 1 year ago

Text

AEIWAM canon fun fact for no reason: Zaraki Kenpachi 100% fully believes in, and practices, tarot reading.

The deck he's using is, of course, completely sideways of a conventional tarot. There are no suits, not properly faces, as the deck is entirely comprised of Cards* that he picked up at some point and felt a connect with.

The Garbage Tarot is accurate to the point of violence, will happily tell people about the present or past but gets huffy and sarcastic if you try to prognosticate too much or too specifically. It will never tell anyone how they will die but will practically spell the name and address of who they're going to marry. Or murder. Sometimes both. You get to figure that part out, asshole.

It also seems to work only for Zaraki- even touching the deck can lead to disaster, at least according to Renji who tried to use it once and immediately had the worst run of luck of his life for a week that culminated in a monkey attack and having to get the rabies shots.

Despite its accuracy and the fact it shares Zaraki's peculiar sense of humor, he doesn't use it often. "I ask it when it's an emergency or it tells me it's got news. Otherwise, it's resting. What would happen if you kick in my door in the middle of the night to ask me about your love life? I'd fuckin' castrate you, that's what. Leave it."

* "Cards" here meaning "approximately 3x5 inch flat rectangle-ish objects with two different sides that can be shuffled. This includes, but is not limited to: beer mats he scribbled important names and addresses on, Smutty polaroids he found in the back of a desk drawer, a Christmas card, a compact mirror, laminated natural objects like flowers and snakeskin, swathes of fabric, tile, the checkout cards from Library copies of famous literature, postcards, business cards, academic flash cards, the very small menu of a seafood restaurant, and a handful or normal playing and tarot cards just to be funny.

It makes a horrible noise when shuffled.

Mayuri despises it, calling it superstitious bullshit and refusing Zaraki's offer to do a reading before an important project. Mayuri flounced from the building in disgust, and as soon as he set a toe outside, he was strick by lightning.

Unohana was disappointed that he'd believe in cartomancy at first but she's kept careful notes on the results of the draws and how things turn out and there's always an element of confirmation bias but she's slightly alarmed that it may actually work. To be fair, that would only be the fourth or fifth most improbable thing about Zaraki.

#aeiwam #an elephant is warm and mushy #bleach #bleach fanfic #kenpachi zaraki #mayuri kurotsuchi #retsu unohana #renji abarai #tarot

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ratatoastwrites · 2 months ago

Text

It’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to

Spencer Reid x reader

Synopsis: Your birthday is definitely not a joyous occasion for you. Luckily, your cute neighbour might just make it a little better.

wc: 825

cw: kind of hurt/comfort, can be read as platonic, no gendered pronouns (if i remember correctly) but reader own a skirt, pretty short, open ending-ish, reader is straight up not having a good time, but nothing extra happens, oh and reader is in college/uni

a/n: guess who’s turning 22 in less than half an hour!! 🧌 this is mostly a vent fic, but i just made up some parts to make it less personal lol. um but yea, I wish I had Spencer Reid to cheer me up on my not-so-good bday (even though it’s not technically my bday yet)

also!!! i realised that i’m not the best at writing fluff, but if you guys want a smutty continuation to this, feel free to yell at me in my inbox 🧚‍♀️ oh and my wips are still cooking, it’s just busy season at uni for me #businessmajor

Arriving back at your apartment, you all but slammed your bag down next to the shoe rack, before kicking off your converse like a fussy toddler. Tears were already clouding your vision, hot, angry, frustrated, making your vision blurry as you trudged deeper into your home.

You flopped down onto your couch, face down, tears silently pouring out of your eyes. You stayed like that for approximately thirty seconds, before springing up with a gasp, realising that your wet, runny makeup was soaking into the throw pillow’s fabric — a fuzzy, dusty pink, because of course it had to be a light colour.

You stood up from your couch, beginning to pace the carpeted floor of your living room, while your hands rubbed your face, further smudging your already murky makeup. Your fingers slid into your hair, grasping at your messy strands, before you finally sank down into a sitting position, on the edge of the couch.

And then you just lost it. Your sobs filled your otherwise quiet apartment, the sound so broken and pitiful, that if someone overheard, they’d think you just received the worst news of your life. Your shoulders shook with the force of your sobs, your body trembling from the sheer sadness and irritation you were experiencing.

It was your birthday. Something that was supposed to be a joyous occasion, and yet, it always ended up being the most cursed part of your year. You woke up with sore joints, the kind that even your morning yoga routine couldn’t quite fix. Then, you burnt your scrambled eggs, and fixing that mess made you late for class —a lecture that you already really didn’t want to attend. It was nearing final’s season, which was a constant, added layer of stress as well, and you were up to your ears with studying and assignments and deadlines.

Your mood was already sour, and it seemed like the universe was only trying to test your limits further. The barista got your order wrong, and then acted all pissy when you dared to complain. You had a fight with one of your friends, then another altercation with another one of your friends.

And the very worst thing, that ruined your mood whenever it crossed your mind: your skirt. Specifically, your vintage Gerry Weber skirt, that was used to be in perfect condition, despite the fact that you had found it at a thrift store for one (1!) dollar, on sale. It was your pride and your joy. Until yesterday, when you put it into the washing machine, and it came out five sizes smaller, and with the underskirt hanging out on the bottom. Ruined. Just like your life.

You were considering ordering some unhealthy takeout and a bottle – or two – of wine, just to dull your sorrows a little, when you heard a knock on your door. You raised your head from your hands, sniffling in confusion. You weren’t expecting anyone —if you had, you wouldn’t have let yourself end up looking like a pitiful mess.

You were considering ignoring it, but then whoever was on the other side decided to knock again. You stood up with a shaky sigh, trying to wipe your face with the sleeves of your sweater, in the hopes of looking less ghastly when you opened the door.

Whoever you were – or weren’t – expecting, it definitely wasn’t your very pretty, very awkward looking neighbour, who was shifting from one foot to the other in front of your doorway.

“Spencer?” You asked, like you couldn’t quite believe your eyes. Your voice was rough, hoarse and wet from all the crying and the force of your sobs.

“Yeah, hi. Uhm, I was just stopping by to say happy birthday, but… Are you okay?”

He sounded so sweet, so genuine in his concern, that it tugged on your heartstrings. But what really did it was the fact that he remembered your birthday. He remembered, and he cared enough to show up at your door, to wish you a happy birthday, despite his hectic schedule. Despite the fact that the two of you have only spoken a handful of times before, in the past three months that you’ve been living next to him.

“Do you want to come in?” You asked, the words leaving your mouth before your brain could even register them. “I mean, you don’t have to, of course. I know that you’re super busy, I just–“

“Sure,” he cut off your rambling with a small, charmingly awkward smile. “I have a feeling that we could both use some company.”

And so you stepped to the side with a small, but genuine smile, letting him enter your apartment.

Sure, you didn’t particularly like your birthday. It somehow always ended up being the shittiest part of your year. But if it ended with your sweet, endearingly nerdy neighbour in your living room, well… Maybe it wasn’t the worst day of your life, after all.

#spencer reid x reader #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x you #cm spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x fem!reader #vent fic #light angst #hurt/comfort #spencer reid x gn!reader

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feinv · 1 year ago

Note

Hi, I think you are accepting applications right now but I have an idea, where John Wick and reader finally have time and go to a beach house for the weekend, reader comes out with a bathing suit to the beach and John notices that some men are staring at him and gets very jealous, which causes them to have a hot night:)

john wick x gn!reader. smutty. rough-ish sex? jealousy. john has deeply rooted abandonment issues.

you spent the whole day swimming and tanning with john over cold drinks and smiles and giggles, relaxing together as much as you could since the weather was finally so pleasant, warm sun shining on your exposed bodies with an occasional breeze cooling you down.

at some point john had an important call to answer to, so you went ahead into the water without him until he would shortly join you.

that is when the corner of his eye caught the three men staring at your body as you walked towards the shore, pointing at you and exchanging words with one another.

the voice from the other side of the line was muffled with anger that clouded his mind at the thought of their nasty and disgusting looks. he wasn’t new to men checking you out, and he wasn’t the type to cause a scene, but the audacity those idiots had to fantasize about you especially when he was right by your side made him furious to his core. he knew better than to beat them up in the broad daylight in front of other innocent people who just wanted to have fun. it took him a lot of willpower to just get up from his place and accompany you in the water.

you were, of course, oblivious to the whole encounter, mindlessly swimming around in the water, letting your whole body float on the surface with your eyes close when you felt a pair of strong and familiar hands yanking you to him. you continued to have fun with the love of your life until the sun set down over the horizon, packing your things and heading towards the beach house.

you yelped when he practically forced himself on you the minute the door closed shut, kissing you with a hunger you’ve never felt before, devouring you whole like he was trying to prove a point. you just didn’t know to who. perhaps to himself?

your suspicions turned out to be true when he thrusted in you with a matching greedy rhythm, manhandling your pliant body to make you see stars in all the different ways.

the red love bites on your neck were quick to follow, as he left passionate hickeys on your exposed flash, his lips grazing over your earlobe as he whispered. “tell me you’re mine.” his baritone voice so deep and desperate it made you clench around him involuntarily.

“all yours, john.” you somehow managed to mumble in between your moans and whines when he groaned in your ear, his tip hitting your sensitive stop, making you crumble underneath him.

he chased his own orgasm, and yours too, again and again, until your hot and sticky bodies were too exhausted to keep going, yet you felt his hands hugging you a little too tight than usual throughout the night, your back pressed to his bare chest as his arms were wrapped around your waist.

#i wanna play mermaids with him #feinv—jw #—babymazz #john wick x reader #john wick smut

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arcadia-of-pluto · 9 months ago

Text

In High Cotton || Rafayel (m)

Paring(s); LADS Rafayel x reader

Word count; 3,626

Themes; swearing, smut, plushie turning human (??), I write the word plushie a lot (I'm sorry), porn with a smidgen of plot, alternative universe

Warnings; Cunnilingus, fingering, slight choking, smidge of hair pulling, some degrading (if you squint), unprotected sex (wrap it up), some boob play, (do not expect a masterpiece of a smut— I didn't realize how rusty I was at writing them until I actually started 😞)

Notes; woah, 700ish notes on my most recent drabble! That's insane tbh. It almost feels like I should only write drabbles, and it wasn't even a smutty drabble either 🤔 I thought people were usually into smut?

Either way, I'm glad yall are liking it while I readjust myself to writing smut once again! I used to write smut SO much when I was younger and then I just stopped– but when I do write it again, it might have too much detail and I do apologize beforehand for that...speaking of, it's happening now btw! I'm going to try to write good smut for this. I got this idea for a short, one-shot hentai-ish Manga (it's called…”my plushie turned into a human” or something like that)

Also, lowkey, cotton doesn't even feel like a real word anymore 😭

|| Main Masterlist ||

In High Cotton;

//this Southern idiom means “to be doing well or living a comfortable life”; in comparison, to be ‘in low cotton’ would mean you're having a bad day//

“What are you, a child? Stop carrying around that stupid plushie! It feels like you care more about that damn thing than our relationship.”

Your head whips around to stare at your partner through a glare.

Oh really now?

You care more about a stuffed piece of fabric in comparison to your almost five years of dating this person?? Yeah, right.

Your partner was just trying to deflect this situation away from the fact that you caught them cheating.

They were grasping at straws to throw the blame on you and your cherished plush was the only thing they could throw at you…pitiful.

You've had this little plushie since you were little and, honestly, you didn't even remember what show it was from– if it was on one. Your childhood friend gave it to you shortly before he moved away and you've since forgotten what he even looked like.

The only memory of him being the purple haired, humanoid plushie currently clasped between your hands as you fought the urge to throw it at your partner.

And, tired of your silence, your partner left your apartment shortly after.

Now, you were left alone with your plushie.

You slowly swipe your thumb back and forth over its pinkish-blue eyes as you ponder just why you cherished it so much. Why you cherished Raf so much.

Yeah, Raf. That's apparently the name of the plushie. That's what your mom claims you called it throughout the years, so you had no reason to change it.

But yeah. You were unsure why it never left your side.

You always kept it in your purse, in your shirt pocket– it almost felt like an emotional support doll, at this point.

Anyway, you stand up from the floor and go lock your door so your partner couldn't barge back inside the apartment, even if they wanted to. Then, you decide to go to bed. You were off work for the next few days, so you could finally get some well deserved rest.

You quickly get changed into your pajamas and curl up in the bed with Raf in your arms. Your hand resting against the red beret on its head, thumb gently brushing over the small black bead on top of the hat as you drift off to sleep.

You wake up feeling…warm? Too warm, in fact.

You know you fell asleep with the air conditioner on, so there's absolutely no reason for the room to feel as warm as it does.

You grumble under your breath, wanting to go back to sleep as quickly as possible, and keep your eyes shut as you try to kick out from under the covers. You soon realize you can't do this, because you feel an odd weight holding you down.

If your partner snuck back in, you swear to god—

But when you open your eyes, you're met with an unfamiliar sight.

It's…a stranger. In bed with you.

Their hair, however, was oddly familiar.

Purple hair…

Nah, no way. There's no way your plushie suddenly turned into a human, but that would definitely make you feel less anxious than assuming a stranger was in your home.

You take a deep breath and glance around for your plushie. If you can find it, then this man isn't your favourite stuffed animal and if you can't– well, it could've fallen into the floor. You won't sink into the delusion that this man was Raf, until that was your final option.

You couldn't find it with just your eyes, so you attempted to wiggle out of the man's grasp. However, this only causes him to hold you tighter, his arms squeezing around your waist as he pulls you further into his bare chest.

…bare chest?

You blink a few times. Your head is close enough to touch the man's chin.

Fuck it.

You put your hands on his chest and desperately try to pull away from him, full on struggling since you've decided to not care if you wake him up or not. He came into your house, why should you be accommodating toward him??

“Hmm?”

You hear his tired voice as he finally removes one arm from your waist to rub his eyes, and the moment he opens then, you have no choice but to accept that he was your plushie.

Seriously, like what normal human has pinkish-blue eyes?? No one. Unless he's wearing contacts, that is literally your comfort doll.

You know it sounds crazy, but how else would this random guy know what your plush looks like?? Especially enough to copy its looks perfectly.

“Oh. Good morning, Y/n.” He yawns, stretching his arms up and that's when you snap.

You quickly sit up and move away from him, holding a hand out in front of you. “What're you doing in my house? You're not…Raf, are you?”

“You recognize me!?” He almost blinds you with his innocently charming smile.

“You're…joking, right? I mean, seriously, how am I supposed to believe that?” You say, half asleep but clearly not buying this act. You run a hand through your hair, brows furrowed and you could feel a headache coming on.

“Oh…you don't believe me..” he frowns, sitting up against the pillows. “Hmm…what can I do to make you believe me?”

“Uh…say something that only someone who knows me would know?” You throw your hands up in the air, exasperatedly.

Come on, how the heck were you supposed to know?? Though, you'd probably believe him if he said something personal.

“Raf” brings his hand up to rest under his chin as he contemplates what to say. After a few moments of silence, you stand up from the bed.

“Alright, if you're not going to say anything, then–”

“When you were seven, you threw up and ran into your mom's room crying because you thought you were dying…uh, oh also, when you were ten, you were trying to ride a bike and busted your knee open when you fell– you have a scar from it. At eleven, you accidentally punched a kid in the face and got into your first fight– that you lost, by the way. And at sixteen, you were going to lose your virginity, but your ex said you had to get Raf off the bed and you said, and I quote, ‘the doll stays’.”

“Raf” looks at you after he finishes talking with an almost proud looking smile on his face and you tilt your head to the side.

You…

…what?

You had no other choice, but to believe him now.

The scar on your knee would've been the easiest to guess, but the others? But you don't want to seem too gullible…

You clear your throat, crossing your arms over your chest. “Tell me more before I make my decision.”

Surely he wouldn't say anything embarrassing, right?

“You've faked every orgasm with your current partner. You can only cum if—”

“Okay, okay!” You quickly place your hand over his mouth. Your face turns scarlet as you squeeze your eyes shut. “That's enough. I'll believe you for now.”

You feel something wet against your palm and jerk your hand back. “What the hell– did you just lick my hand??” You drag your hand against your pants to wipe it off, before shaking your head. “Look, go get dressed. I'm sure my ex has some clothes you can wear.”

You put an emphasis on ex, since you decided you weren't going to stay with that cheater the moment they left your apartment last night.

Then, you leave the room.

Honestly….Raf was a pretty decent roommate. Sure, he didn’t work, but you'd come back to a home-cooked meal after work every day. He'd do the laundry, the dishes, and he even painted on the side.

You weren't sure if he'd ever turn back into a plush, but you preferred him this way. With him as a human, you could talk about your day with someone, eat with someone…there's only one problem.

Personal space and…personal time.

You haven't been able to get off in almost a month– that's how long Raf has been human by now– and it has started to get to you. You usually aren't a very sexual person, but sometimes you just need to rub one out every now and again…and you can't with him constantly snuggled in the bed next to you.

Tonight was another night where you wouldn't be able to do what you wanted.

You let out a small sigh as you get settled in bed. The TV played a random show in the background as it illuminated the otherwise dark room. Raf laid next to you, one arm curled under the pillow so he could still watch the TV. He was shirtless too, so that made your conundrum even better.

“What's wrong?” He asks, not looking away from the TV and you quickly shake your head.

“It's nothing. Nothing at all.”

Raf shifts over to his side to look at your face, raising one of his eyebrows ever so slightly. “You haven't…Well, I mean, you usually do it once a week and it's been a month now–”

“Raf–” you sigh, covering his head with a pillow. “Shut up.”

He pulls the pillow down, so only his eyes are visible. “Do you still not see me as a man?”

“I don't want to talk about this right now.” You try to pull the pillow back over his face and he catches you by the wrist.

“I could make you feel way better than your ex did…” he trails off as he guides your hand to the front of his pajama pants.

You could visibly see a bump from over the covers and you choke on your spit as you felt something warm under your palm.

Something big.

“Raf…” you trail off, but you can't find the will to tell him to let it go.

His words made you curious…you wanted to know if sex could actually feel good or if he was just talking a big game.

What could he really know about sex, anyways?

He's only been human for a month now, so there's no way he could actually be good at it, right?

As you're lost in thoughts, your hand subconsciously squeezes his election and Raf tilts his head back, teeth sinking into his bottom lip to hold back a groan.

“Earth to Y/n.” He hums, snapping his fingers in front of your face. “Yes or no, cutie? I want explicit consent.”

You were battling with your thoughts, but you ultimately nodded your head.

“Use your words now. Your pretty lips aren't just there for show, are they?” The man taps his finger against your bottom lip and you let out an impatient sigh, “Yes, now can you please–”

Your words were silenced by Raf's lips crashing down against yours.

One of his hands ghosts down your body, fingers resting under the waistband of your pajama shorts, just a few inches from where you really wanted his touch. His other hand slides up your shirt, cupping a breast.

You feel the bed dip underneath you as Raf swings a leg over your body, fully pinning you to the bed as he continues his assault against your lips.

His tongue swipes across your bottom lip, but you playfully refuse to let him in. In retaliation, Raf’s fingers pinch around your nipple and harshly tug at it. A gasp escapes you and he takes this opportunity to slip his tongue past your open lips.

The only time your lips part is when Raf leans back to tug his shirt off and takes off yours as well.

Now shirtless in front of the man, you can't help but feel a little self conscious.

Though Raf quickly dissuades your self doubt by dipping his head down to latch onto your nipple. His hand finally moved further into your pants. His index finger resting on your clit and you arch your hips up, trying to force him to move.

Your thigh stings in pain as you feel Raf's palm collide with your skin.

“Patience.” He murmurs against your chest.

His fingers draw lazy circles against your clit and, while it is pleasurable, you want more.

You dip your hand past his waistband and grab onto his dick. Your hand could barely wrap fully around it and you could only imagine how it would feel. It felt like it would hurt…a little. But what's a little pain?

Your hand lazily strokes Raf's dick, thumb dragging over his tip to collect a few drops of precum and that's when the man finally snaps.

His fingers move lower. His middle finger slowly glides inside of you and he gives you a few thrusts with his singular finger, before adding a second one. With both fingers sheathed inside, he makes a ‘come-hither’ motion with every thrust of his digits.

“R-Raf– wa—ah— wait..” Your nails dig into the skin of his shoulder while your other hand pauses its movements. You try to hide your face in your shoulder, but Raf seizes your chin with a hand.

“Don't look away now, princess. I wanna see your face. Wanna see just how good I'm making you feel.” He tsks and pulls away for a moment.

He strips you of your bottoms, tossing them to the side as his big hands grip your thighs. His palm slaps the newly exposed skin before he taps your hands.

“Hold your legs up for me and don't drop them.”

You want to question his words, but don't. Instead, you wrap your arms under your knees and pull them as close to your chest as you can. It was, honestly, a really embarrassing position, but you couldn't help but get even more wet.

Your juices were tacky against your thighs and even dripping down onto the sheets below you.

“Raf…” you whine, wondering what's taking him so long since you expected him to fuck you already. But instead of his cock, you feel something else.

You feel something warm and wet against your clit, and a strangled noise comes up from your throat as Raf flicks his tongue against your pussy. His fingers going back to your entrance to slip inside as he wraps his lips around your clit.

Your head tilts back as moans spill from your lips. Raf's skilled fingers working at your center while he tongue draws figure-eights on your clit.

“R-Raf, inside. ‘Wanna cum with you inside, please?” You finally manage to say, your nails digging into your legs.

Your heart stutters in your chest as Raf makes eye contact as he eats you out. Only pausing to respond to you, his fingers still moving.

“You gotta be more specific, princess. I am inside you right now.” He teases.

As you open your mouth to answer, he curls his fingers and they just barely brush your g-spot.

“I want your di– ah, Raf, right there!” Your hips jerk with every thrust of his fingers and you can feel yourself growing closer to your first orgasm, but Raf has other plans.

As you squeeze your eyes shut, preparing for your climax, suddenly you feel empty.

When you open your eyes, you notice that Raf is licking his fingers clean.

A lazy smirk tugs at the man's lips and his hand disappears into his pants, freeing his dick from its confines.

Your eyes are immediately drawn to his angry, red tip. The glistening precum. The way his hand drug against the length of it.

“Hey, my eyes are up here!”” Raf snaps his fingers with a pout. “Geez, you really know how to make a man feel like a pack of meat.” He taps the tip of his dick against your clit and your hips jump.

“Ah, what's the magic word, cutie?” His hand pushes down on your hips, effectively pinning them to the bed as he smears his precum across your clit.

“I…” You grit your teeth, squeezing your thighs before you finally let them go and hold your arms out. “Please fuck me.”

Raf's arms wrap around you as he finally pushes his tip inside and his voice of reason finally snaps. He was originally going to take it slow, to give you time to adjust, but the feeling of your tight, warm walls around his cock makes him unable to think straight.

Your legs wrap around his waist as he thrusts into you with reckless abandon. Though there is a bit of skill to his thrusts, there's also a smidgen of inexperience mixed within it.

“You're so tight, cutie. Do you like my cock that much?” He hums, his lips dragging against the skin of your neck. He firmly presses his lips down, parting them slightly to suck a painful bruise on your neck.

His hips continue to snap forward. His cock languidly pumps in and out of your pussy. The obscene noise of skin slapping against skin, the sound of your bodies coming together, fills the otherwise silent room.

His thumb dips down to make quick circles against your lip as his cock brushes against your g-spot and he claims your lips once more.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, dragging up his skin to leave deep red marks in their wake. Your moans are swallowed by Raf's lips. His tongue collides with yours and you briefly fight for dominance. You ultimately lose, though you didn't put up much of a fight.

The man pulls out and you're about to complain, but suddenly you're flipped onto your knees. Raf presses his palm into the small of your back and your face slams into your pillows.

His cock re-enters as he thrusts, his palm cracks down across your ass. You can't hide the moan that slips from your parted lips and Raf raises a brow.

“Oohh, someone's a bit of a pain slut?”

With this new knowledge, Raf pulls you up by your hair. Your back against his chest and his other hand glides over your body. His two fingers make quick circular motions against your clit and he releases your hair, instead wrapping his hand around your throat.

“R–Raf, please. ‘M so close.” Another noise slips from your lips as his cock just barely kisses your g-spot and you can feel his breath against your ear. “You gonna cum for me?” He presses a small kiss on your shoulder, his hand squeezing around your neck as he quickens his thrusts.

“Uh-huh…” you nod your head, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you try to hold back your moans. You could feel your juices soaking your thighs, could hear the evidence of your arousal with every thrust.

With one last precise thrust that brushes your g-spot, you cum.

You tilt your head back with a choked cry, your hips jerking as your walls spasm around his cock.

“Princess…” Raf groans, his hands tightly gripping your hips as he surges forward. Your body falls forward and your hands go out to steady yourself as he continues to harshly thrust. “Inside or out?”

You take a moment to think before you turn your head to the side, meeting his eyes. “Out, please.”

Raf flips you over onto your back once more and after a few more pumps, he pulls out. His hand quickly strokes his cock before his head tilts back and he moans. His tip shoots out strings of cum, painting your stomach and chest with white ropes.

“Fuck…” he takes a few breathes before you meet each other's eyes.

Then, you both laugh giddily and he dips his head down to gently kiss you.

“I'll go grab a washcloth to clean you up.” He smiles against your lips before he gets off the bed to head into the bathroom.

You sit up and stretch out your sore limbs while you look around for your phone to check the time. “Huh…I could've sworn it was on the bed..” You click your tongue and sigh, sliding off the bed to check if it fell into the floor.

Your hand pats around under your bed and you let out a small squeak of surprise as your hand brushes against something soft. You jerk your hand back, but notice your phone was on the floor. You press a hand against your chest to try and still your fast beating heart. Then, you turn on your phone's flashlight to look under your bed.

“Wait…” you squint, noticing something that looks oddly familiar and once you fish it out, your eyes widen.

It…was Raf.

Slightly dusty since it had been under your bed for a few months, but…this was most certainly Raf, your beloved plushie.

Your head slowly turns in the direction of your bathroom with wide eyes. If your plush Raf was in your hands then…who was in your bathroom?

The door swings open and Raf– no, the stranger walks out from your bathroom with a washcloth in hand.

“I think I'm going to need to do the laundry soon. This is the last clean on– oh, you found it.” The purple-haired man leans against the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I– who…” you look from your cherished plushie to him. “You're not even…”

Then, he chuckles.

“You ever noticed the little black ball on his beret?” He taps a finger against his temple. “I gave you that when we were little…been watching you ever since.” He has a smile on his lips as if this was a normal thing to admit.

“You're—”

“Highly intelligent? Devilishly handsome?”

“—insane.”

“No, silly girl. My name is Rafayel. Don't worry, I'll fuck you a few more times so you can remember it.”

I tried my best and that's all that matters tbh 😭 I think it seems so bad because it's in second person and I'm used to writing smut in first. But I'm hoping I'll get better at it with practice!

Either way, I'm sure this isn't the worst smut you've read so I hope you enjoyed it!

Also, sorry there isn't a drabble this week! I might write one soon since I've got two days off 🤔 I'm not sure yet tbh

#lads #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lads x reader #lads rafayel #love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel x reader #lnds smut #lnds x reader #lnds rafayel #lnds rafayel x reader #lads rafayel x reader #lads smut #love and deepspace smut #l&ds #l&ds rafayel #l&ds smut #l&ds rafayel x reader

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lycheeflavr · 20 days ago

Note

Hiii i js stumbled into your blog and its superr cutee!! I really love your writing was wondering if you were open to wrote about Tsukishimaa? If not, its okay :))

Heiii, first of all, thank you very much, and also thank you for the request <3 yes, of course!! I honestly had so much fun writing this, also I didn't know if you would like some smut as well, so I added a little smutty bonus scene at the end. You can skip it, it doesn't really matter to the story :)) now I hope you have a lot of fun reading this!!

The Bones Beneath 🧢🐠

pairing: timeskip!tsukishima kei x GN!reader tags: slow burn (ish), mutual pining, coworker tension, art & science themes, tsuki being a secret softie, slight angst with comfort, banter & emotional closeness, confessions without confessing, fluff if squint, reader is an exhibit designer/artist, tsuki is an AV tech/paleontology nerd, almost love, quiet longing summary: You were never supposed to get attached to the quiet AV technician helping set up your fossil exhibit. He was there to wire the lights. You were there to make bones beautiful. But somewhere between late-night fixes, museum shadows, and cups of burnt breakroom coffee, something between you began to take shape—slow and fragile and maybe a little ancient in its own way. word count: 5.8k

Tsukishima Kei liked his hours quiet and his fossils older than God.

The museum opened to the public at nine, but he was always there by seven. The early mornings were his: no chattering tourists, no interns asking questions he didn’t care to answer, no toddlers smudging glass with sticky hands. Just silence, bones, and the low mechanical hum of the lights flickering to life row by row.

He walked the exhibit floor with a mug of instant black coffee and a clipboard he didn’t really need. The Tyrannosaurus rex stood tall in the center of the room, jaws frozen in a permanent snarl, ribs exposed like cathedral arches. Tsukishima paused beneath it every morning like it was ritual. One sip of coffee, one glance upward. The bones never changed.

That was the point.

He liked things that stayed the same. Fossils. Labels. Dust motes in the morning light.

At exactly 7:43 a.m., he opened his laptop behind the front desk — not where the general staff worked, but the tucked-away station he’d unofficially claimed. It had the best Wi-Fi signal and worst chair. He preferred that no one else wanted to sit there.

Emails loaded slowly. He sipped his coffee and scanned subject lines. One caught his attention, marked URGENT – EXHIBIT SUPPORT REQUEST. He clicked it without much enthusiasm.

To: Tsukishima KeiSubject: Visiting Artist Collaboration | Exhibit Support

Kei, You’ve been assigned as the museum liaison for our upcoming interactive exhibit, “Extinction Echoes.” The guest artist arrives tomorrow to begin work on the installation surrounding the T-Rex centerpiece. Please provide access and assist as needed — you’ll be their primary point of contact.

Let us know if you have questions. — Ms. Fukuda

He stared at the screen. Then took another long sip of coffee.

Artist, he thought, in the way someone might think pest infestation. They always asked too many questions. They moved things that weren’t supposed to be moved. They cared about aesthetics over accuracy, emotion over science. It made his teeth itch.

He clicked the artist’s attached bio and scanned the page.

You had a list of gallery credits longer than his patience. Installations in Kyoto, Seoul, Paris. Something about “immersive spaces challenging temporal experience.” He didn’t know what that meant and didn’t care enough to pretend. There was a photo of you attached — mid-laugh, head tilted back, paint-splattered hands. You looked loud, even in stillness.

Tsukishima closed the tab with a sigh.

This was going to suck.

He stared at the skeleton of the T-Rex for a while longer, like maybe it would offer sympathy. It didn’t.

Back to his feet, clipboard tucked under his arm, he continued the routine — checking casing screws, labeling touch-up requests in pencil. As long as you stayed out of his way, maybe this wouldn’t be a disaster.

Maybe you wouldn’t talk too much.

Maybe you’d cancel last-minute and spare him the headache.

He doubted it.

The fossils, at least, wouldn’t leave him unread.

The next morning, Tsukishima arrived five minutes earlier than usual.

Not because he cared. Just to set the rules. It was important that people knew their place in a shared ecosystem — especially the kinds of people who used phrases like temporal fluidity and wore too many rings.

The exhibit hall was still empty, the bones calm and familiar in the blue-toned light of early morning. He was mid-sip of coffee, debating whether he had time to finish it before the chaos arrived, when—

“Hi!” a voice called from the far end of the gallery.

He turned, already bracing himself.

You were a splash of color against the muted sandstone walls — all layers and movement. A long, oversized coat in a shade too bright to be taken seriously, mismatched socks barely visible beneath wide-legged trousers, a bag slung across your shoulder like it weighed more than you did. One hand held a battered sketchbook. The other, naturally, clutched a drink in a cup aggressively labeled LAVENDER MATCHA in bubble letters.

He blinked once. Then again.

“You’re Tsukishima, right?” you asked, walking toward him without waiting for an answer. “Sorry I’m early — I just couldn’t sleep last night, I was too excited. This place is incredible.”

He nodded once, clipped and formal. “I know.”

That stopped you for half a second. Then you laughed.

“Oh, cool. Confidence. Love that.”

He didn’t respond. Just turned and started walking toward the control panel, trusting you'd follow.

You did, footsteps echoing lightly behind his. “The bones are even more haunting in the morning. Kind of like they know they’re supposed to be asleep, but they’re still here. I mean, isn’t that sad? In a poetic way.”

“I’m pretty sure the skeletons don’t have feelings,” he muttered without looking at you.

“Well, someone’s a morning person,” you teased, grinning.

He resisted the urge to sigh. “I assume you read the layout brief?”

“I did, but I don’t do great with maps,” you said, flipping open your sketchbook and holding it up like proof. “I just take notes like this. Shapes, light impressions, space planning... it makes more sense to me.”

He stared at the mess of charcoal strokes and layered watercolor swatches that resembled absolutely nothing useful.

“This is your system?”

“Mhm.”

“It looks like a bird flew into a window and died.”

You snorted — actually snorted — and Tsukishima narrowed his eyes.

“Wow,” you said, grinning. “Are you this charming with everyone, or am I just special?”

“I’m not charming.”

“Well, you’re something.”

He stared at you, unreadable, then said, “Let’s get this over with.”

You followed as he walked, still chattering, unbothered by the blank expression he wore like armor. He gave you the tour — exhibit boundaries, restricted zones, lighting rig limitations — and you nodded along, eyes darting between him and the bones above like you were seeing a world he couldn’t.

“This place feels like a cathedral,” you said eventually, voice lower now. “But broken. Like worshipping something that’s already gone. That’s why I want the light to move slowly across the ribs. Like… memory.”

He paused.

The quiet stretched. For a moment, you thought he hadn’t heard you. Then, softly:

“They weren’t worshipped. They were feared. The T-Rex was a predator.”

��Still deserves a little reverence,” you said.

His jaw twitched.

You smiled. “You’re kind of a fossil snob, huh?”

“I’m a paleontologist.”

“Oh, that explains the glasses.”

“I don’t wear—” He stopped himself. Exhaled sharply. “You’re going to be exhausting.”

“I’ve been called worse,” you chirped.

You sat cross-legged on the floor a few minutes later, sketchbook open on your lap, head tilted at an angle only artists and toddlers attempting handstands ever attempted. You tapped your pen against your lips thoughtfully.

Tsukishima hovered nearby, clipboard in hand, pointedly not watching you.

“I think we should try sound too,” you said suddenly. “Subtle—like a low hum. Maybe faint echoing footsteps, like ghosts. Not too literal.”

“That’s not in the budget,” he replied, immediately.

“Not yet,” you shot back, unfazed. “But maybe if I bribe the right intern—”

“Please don’t.”

“No promises, dino boy.”

The silence that followed was immediate. You looked up, blinking. He was frozen mid-step, like you’d just said something blasphemous in a sacred space.

“What?”

“Did you just call me—?”

“Oh. That slipped out,” you said, sheepish. “Sorry. I mean—Kei, right? Or… Tsukishima? Do you prefer one?”

His expression flattened. “I prefer not being called a pet name designed by a cartoon character.”

You grinned, and there it was — the spark. The part you hadn't expected. Under all that sarcasm and sharpness, something coiled and unreadable. Maybe not warmth. Not yet. But interest, flickering low and quiet like the gallery lights overhead.

“Well,” you said, tucking your pen behind your ear and getting to your feet, “I guess I’ll just have to earn it.”

His eyes narrowed. “Earn what?”

“A less embarrassing nickname.”

He rolled his eyes so hard it was practically audible.

You turned, already halfway to the next room, your voice floating behind you. “Come on, fossil prince. We’ve got work to do.”

He muttered something under his breath — probably unflattering — but followed.

Not because he cared.

Just because you clearly needed supervision.

Tsukishima wasn’t sure when it stopped bothering him.

You were in the exhibit every day. That part made sense — you had work to do. What didn’t make sense was how you did it.

You hummed when you worked. Never full songs, just little pieces, shapeless and aimless, like you were keeping yourself company. You talked to the bones like they were old friends. Called the Stegosaurus “Big Spikey Boy” under your breath. Left coffee cups in bizarre places — behind glass cases, perched on light fixtures, one time balanced delicately on the rib of a hadrosaur like it belonged there.

He found himself moving them instead of snapping at you.

That annoyed him most of all.

You sprawled on the floor to draw. Sat backwards on chairs. Doodled stars in the margins of your blueprints. You weren’t messy — you were chaotic. But not in a way that ruined things. You took up space like you belonged to it. Like you’d earned it.

He hated it.

He really, really didn’t.

Tsukishima started staying later under the excuse of “supervising.” In truth, he just… didn’t want to leave. Not when your sketchbook was open across your knees, feet bare, toes tapping the air in rhythm with the music you played from a tiny Bluetooth speaker you weren’t technically allowed to use.

Soft stuff. Dreamy. A little sad. Fuzzy guitars and synths like melted sunlight.

He told you to turn it off.

You didn’t.

He didn’t ask again.

Most evenings, he brought work with him — real work, grant edits or exhibit updates — but he barely touched it. Instead, he watched you in the corner of his eye. The way you moved around the bones, measuring with your hands, frowning thoughtfully at light angles. Talking to yourself under your breath.

And once, when he stayed too late without realizing, he looked up and caught you lying flat on your back in the middle of the exhibit floor.

At first he thought something was wrong — your limbs were outstretched, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling like you’d fallen and simply given up.

Then you spoke, quiet and unhurried.

“It’s beautiful how it still takes up space after all this time.”

He didn’t answer right away. The gallery was too still, the air too thick. It was the kind of sentence people usually said in museums when they were trying to impress someone. But you’d said it to no one. Like you didn’t expect to be heard at all.

His voice came out rougher than intended.

“You mean the T-Rex?”

You didn’t move. Just blinked, slow. “Yeah. It’s been dead millions of years, and it still makes people stop. Still commands a room. Like… it never left.”

He stared at the curve of the bones — the arc of the ribs, the open jaw — and swallowed.

“It’s not really the same,” he said eventually. “This is a reconstruction. Most of the bones are casts.”

“Still,” you said, softer now. “It’s the shape that matters.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Or maybe he did, but it sat too heavy on his tongue.

Instead, he sat beside you.

Not close. Not touching.

But that was the first time he didn’t go home early.

Over the next week, something shifted.

You stopped asking if he wanted music on — just played it. He stopped pretending to glare.

You started bringing two coffees, not one. Always black for him, always in a plain cup labeled KEI in smudged pen.

He never said thank you.

You never expected it.

You adjusted a lighting fixture one evening, standing on the lowest ledge of the exhibit’s frame. Tsukishima reached out instinctively when you wobbled.

His hand curled around your waist for half a second. Warm. Steady.

You froze. He stepped back like he’d touched a stove.

“Careful,” he muttered.

You smiled. “You do care.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t let go as fast next time.

He started reading your notes after you went home.

Not snooping — just... curious. Your sketchbook was a mess of lines and light notations: “bone shadows curl here,” “weight of silence stronger in this quadrant,” “add faint shimmer to mimic breath.”

Breath.

He didn’t know how to explain how badly that word undid him.

You treated the exhibit like it was alive. Not a museum piece, but a memory you could still talk to. An echo with ribs.

And you never once made him feel like he wasn’t allowed in that echo, too.

One night, he walked into the exhibit after hours to find you asleep on the bench beneath the T-Rex.

Your coat was bundled under your head, sketchbook lying open on your chest. The gallery lights glowed faintly overhead, casting soft shadows across your face. You looked peaceful. Quiet. A part of the space now, not just working on it — woven into the silence.

He sat across from you, pretending to read a paper he wasn’t holding. Time passed. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe more.

Then your voice, soft with sleep:

“Are you watching me sleep?”

He didn’t flinch. “You’re not even fully asleep.”

You peeked at him with one eye open. “Maybe I was dreaming about you.”

“Unlikely.”

“Rude.”

He rolled his eyes — but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, unguarded for once.

You caught it.

“Kei,” you said, like it meant something new now.

He looked up.

“Yeah?”

You blinked like you hadn’t expected that response to come so easily.

Then you just smiled and said, “Nothing.”

He didn’t press. But he stayed until the building closed.

It started with the lighting.

You stood in the center of the exhibit with your hands in your hair, gesturing to the overhead rig like you were conducting some invisible orchestra.

“We could do a soft fade that moves with the visitor — like the bones respond to presence. Just a slow, low shift as people walk through. Imagine how alive it would feel.”

Tsukishima didn’t even look up from his clipboard.

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

“That’s not what this exhibit is. It’s not a haunted house. It’s not a performance.”

“You haven’t even seen it yet, Kei. I have a test set-up. It’s subtle. Thoughtful. It adds mood.”

“It adds distraction,” he said flatly. “And it compromises the fossil presentation. Light distortions throw off color perception and may damage the casts over time.”

“Oh, come on,” you snapped, heat curling into your chest. “We’re not burning them under stage lights. This isn’t your personal lab. It’s a space for people to feel something. You said you wanted more engagement.”

“I want clarity. Not theatrical gimmicks.”

The word landed hard.

You went still, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“So that’s what you think this is,” you said, voice tight. “A gimmick.”

Tsukishima looked up then. Slowly. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw was set like stone.

“You act like you’re saving them. Like making a dinosaur look dramatic is the same as making people care.”

“And you act like people will care just because you slapped a plaque on the wall and stood under a spotlight!”

It burst out of you, louder than you meant.

“You’re so obsessed with being precise, with being right, that you don’t even see how cold you sound. No wonder no one sticks around.”

The silence was immediate.

You heard it the second it came out of your mouth — the way his face didn’t flinch but froze, eyes going cold and glassy like he’d just flicked off something vital inside himself.

He stared at you. Long and flat.

Then:

“You think people care about your lights? You think they’ll walk out remembering ‘how it felt’ and not just take a photo and leave?”

You swallowed hard. Your chest ached.

“I don’t know what they’ll remember,” you said. “But I’m scared they won’t remember anything. That they’ll walk past bones that are millions of years old and shrug. That all this work will fade into the background because it didn’t shine enough to be seen.”

That cracked something in your voice. The quiet truth beneath the fire.

Tsukishima looked at you for a long moment.

Then he muttered,

“People always care about spectacle.”

And walked away.

You didn’t talk for two days.

You kept your head down when he passed. You played your music softer. Your sketchbook stayed closed, and the second he entered the exhibit, you left.

It shouldn’t have hurt like this.

He wasn’t yours.

But it did. Quietly. Deeply.

Because for all his sharp edges, Kei had made space for you in the quiet hours. Had let you stay. Had sat beside you under fossil ribs while the world turned slow. You’d let yourself think he was listening. That he maybe even believed in some part of your vision.

Apparently not.

That night, Tsukishima stayed late in the office alone. The building was too quiet. He hated how much he noticed the silence now when you weren’t filling it.

He didn’t even mean to open the sketchbook.

It was sitting on your stool, slightly askew, pages fanned like it wanted to be read. He stood there for a long minute before touching it — fingers brushing the paper like he was afraid it might burn.

The notes were messier than he remembered. Half-formed thoughts, shorthand, tiny arrows. But there was a page marked with a sticky tab in the shape of a cartoon bone. He opened to it.

The full skeleton was drawn by hand — not just a diagram, but alive, posed in a way that almost made it look like it was breathing. Lights were sketched in around it, rays tracing the angles of ribs and jaws like sunlight through water. At the bottom of the page, in your handwriting:

I want people to feel like they’ve stumbled into something sacred. Like the bones were waiting for them. Like they’ve walked into a memory older than the Earth they came from.

He stared at the words until they blurred.

He hated how it made his throat tight.

Tsukishima didn’t sleep that night.

He didn’t know how to say it — how to apologize. He didn’t do sorry very well. He usually didn’t need to.

But the shape of your fear haunted him. The way your voice cracked when you said, “I’m scared they won’t remember anything.”

Because he understood that. Too well.

He spent his whole life being remembered for the wrong things. Or not remembered at all.

And you? You wanted your work to matter so badly you were willing to fight him over it. Risk looking soft. Sentimental. Even foolish.

He thought that was brave.

He thought maybe you were brave.

You noticed it the second you walked in.

The lighting rig had changed.

The movement was smoother now, less of a fade and more of a pulse — like breath in the air, like shadow and presence mingling gently along the curve of the fossil display. It responded, but didn’t overwhelm. Subtle. Intentional. Balanced.

And the tech setup? Upgraded. Clean wiring, reinforced bracketing. Your original sketch still hung nearby, but someone had gone over it in pencil — adjusting angles, improving placements.

Your stomach flipped.

There was only one person meticulous enough to have done that.

You found him in the staff lounge, hunched over a mug of black tea and pretending to read a paleontology journal.

You stood in the doorway for a second, then cleared your throat.

“You… fixed the rig.”

Tsukishima didn’t look up.

“It was sloppy.” He turned a page, like the conversation bored him. “I fixed it.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Thanks.”

“It was bothering me.”

“Right. Of course.” You stepped fully into the room, grabbed your own mug, filled it just to do something with your hands.

The silence that settled wasn’t heavy, but it was strange — like the room didn’t know what to do with the absence of arguing. You sat across from him slowly, letting the mug warm your palms.

Outside, thunder rumbled.

“Looks like the storm’s rolling in,” you said, glancing toward the windows.

Tsukishima gave a quiet hum.

“Museum’s closing early. They already put the signs out.”

You nodded. Another pause.

“I guess we’re stuck for a bit.”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t leave either.

Rain began to patter against the windows — soft at first, then sharp, like tiny bones clicking against glass.

You didn’t speak for a while. It wasn’t awkward. Just… quiet.

Eventually, you exhaled.

“I used to think museums were holy.” The words slipped out so gently you almost didn’t notice yourself saying them. “Like sacred, somehow. Even the air felt different. Like I couldn’t breathe loud.”

Tsukishima didn’t move, but you saw the way his eyes lifted, just slightly.

“When I was a kid,” you continued, “we didn’t go many places. But my aunt took me to this little natural history museum once. It was kind of sad, honestly — half the exhibits were broken, one of the audio guides just screamed static. But there was this fossil in the middle of the floor. Some ancient sea creature I couldn’t pronounce. And I just… stood there. For, like, half an hour. Didn’t say a word.”

You smiled a little at the memory.

“She asked if I was bored. But I felt… I don’t know. Seen? Like something that big and that old still being here meant I could be too.”

You rubbed your finger around the rim of your mug.

“I just wanted to make something that someone remembered. Even if they couldn’t explain why.”

The thunder cracked closer now. The lights flickered faintly.

You weren’t sure if he was going to say anything. He didn’t meet your eyes. But after a moment, he spoke — quiet and firm, voice low enough that it didn’t sound like performance.

“Then make something that can’t be forgotten.”

You froze.

Your breath caught.

Not because of what he said — but how he said it.

Not dismissive. Not mocking. But earnest.

Like he meant it.

You looked up. He still wasn’t looking at you, but his fingers had stilled on the page.

The storm roared outside.

Inside, something softened.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You just let the quiet stretch — filled with the scent of tea and rain and the unspoken possibility that maybe… just maybe… you weren’t as far apart as you’d thought.

You didn’t expect to cry. But as the lights came up—soft, fluid, breathing in harmony with the slow rise of ambient sound—you felt something tighten in your chest.

It was exactly what you’d imagined.

The fossil hovered like a ghost over time, suspended in silence and reverence. The light kissed every ancient curve, every bone, every inch of its long-buried story. There was a stillness in the room, as if the crowd understood that breathing too loudly might break the spell.

Your piece. Your concept. Alive.

Applause came gently at first. A few quiet murmurs. And then a wave of sound, camera flashes, hushed voices saying your name with excitement.

Someone clapped you on the back. Another handed you a glass of cheap champagne.

“Brilliant work,” one of the donors said. “Unforgettable,” a curator whispered. “You should be proud,” your boss told you, beaming.

You smiled. You said thank you. You tried to listen. But your eyes were scanning the room for him.

Tsukishima stood in the shadows, off to the left side of the exhibit hall, mostly obscured by a pillar. He was still in his uniform jacket, arms crossed, gold glasses catching the shifting light. He wasn’t clapping. Wasn’t even pretending to mingle.

But he was watching.

You met his eyes across the crowd.

There was a pause. A flicker of something you couldn’t name. And then—he looked away.

You turned back to the small crowd around you. Smiled again. Nodded. Said something about collaboration. You think someone took a photo of you mid-sentence. You didn’t mind. This was what you’d worked for.

But you kept glancing toward the pillar. He was gone.

You slipped out not long after.

The night air was sharp and wet, still humming with the electricity of the earlier storm. The exhibit hall door clicked shut behind you, muffling the buzz of celebration.

You found him near the back entrance of the building, leaning against a railing, eyes tilted up toward the cloud-covered sky. He hadn’t heard you approach.

You paused.

He looked taller out here. The pale security light washed over his cheekbones, caught on his lashes. He hadn’t even changed out of his work shoes.

“You disappeared,” you said quietly.

Tsukishima’s shoulders didn’t shift.

“Didn’t feel like standing around.”

You walked over, hands in your coat pockets.

“But you were part of this.”

“I just fixed the wiring.”

You scoffed, half amused.

“You didn’t just fix the wiring, Kei.”

That made him glance at you. Just a flicker of gold through those glasses. And then he said something you didn’t expect.

“It was beautiful.”

Your breath hitched.

He looked away again. Like it cost him something to say it. Like it meant something more.

“You could’ve said that inside,” you said.

“You didn’t need me to.”

You studied his profile in the silver light.

“But I wanted to.”

Silence again. Not heavy this time. Just… tentative. Careful.

Then:

“You’re going to do big things,” he said, like it was a truth he'd known for a while. “And I’ll be here. Resetting lights. Screwing metal into walls.”

Your brow furrowed.

“Is that what you think?”

He shrugged.

You didn’t know what to say at first. Not because you disagreed, but because you’d never really thought about how he saw himself in all this. How he saw you.

You stepped closer.

“Tsukishima,” you said quietly, and the way his name sounded in the dark felt like a confession. “It’s not just mine, you know. That exhibit. It’s yours too.”

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“I wouldn’t.”

He looked at you again. This time, for real. Not through the fog of tension or sarcasm or pride. Just… him.

And you almost leaned in.

Almost.

But instead, you stood there — too close, not close enough — breathing in the same sharp air, hearts too loud in the silence.

And when he turned to go, he didn’t say goodbye. Just brushed past you gently. Like the beginning of something, or the end of something else.

You watched him disappear down the long path behind the museum. And for the first time all night, you didn’t feel victorious. Just… full. And hollow.

At once.

A few days pass. The exhibit continues without you. Your name is printed in neat black ink on the display cards, and people wander through, praising your “vision,” your “emotional composition,” your “eye for stillness.” You’re already being emailed about new opportunities.

But the only thing you can think about is the shape of Tsukishima’s silhouette in the silver museum light. The things you almost said. The things he almost said back.

You return one quiet afternoon to pick up the last of your things.

It’s raining again.

The museum feels different in the daylight—less mysterious, more skeletal. You walk past school kids and bored parents, past tour groups and sleepy guards, toward the side hallway that smells faintly of sawdust and old lightbulbs.

He’s at the workbench. Same posture. Same headphones. But you can tell he saw you come in—his hands falter for just a moment before resuming whatever careful task he’s pretending requires all his focus.

You clear your throat anyway.

“Hey.”

No reply. He’s sanding something. Aggressively.

You smile to yourself and set down your tote bag, beginning to gather the few things you left behind. A notebook. A print draft. The sweatshirt he let you borrow when the AC broke one night and you stayed too long.

He still hasn’t turned around.

You don’t push it. You just take your time, folding the sweatshirt with unnecessary precision, letting the silence stretch long enough to sting.

When you finally zip your bag and sling it over your shoulder, you pause in the doorway.

“Thanks,” you say, voice quiet. “For everything. The project… it only worked because of you.”

For a second, you think he’s going to ignore you.

But then, still facing away, he mutters:

“The bones were already there. You just made them louder.”

You blink.

And then you laugh. Soft, surprised.

“Getting poetic, dino boy?”

He finally glances at you. The corner of his mouth lifts just a little.

“Don’t get used to it.”

You take a step closer, a hand still gripping the strap of your bag like a shield.

“Well. It was nice hearing you say something beautiful for once.”

“I’ve said a few beautiful things.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

A long pause. He looks down at the thing he was sanding. Then back at you.

“Come back sometime,” he says, casual but not really. “The fossils get boring.”

Your heart stutters. He doesn’t even flinch.

You tilt your head, grinning now.

“You mean you get boring.”

“That too.”

And it should feel like a joke. It should feel like nothing. But it doesn’t.

You both hold each other’s gaze for a second too long. Not quite smiling. Not quite speaking. Just letting the moment breathe between you—thin and fragile and unbearably loud.

You take a breath.

“I might come back,” you say finally. “Just to check on the fossils.”

He nods once, slow.

“Sure.”

You don’t say anything else. You just walk past him, the hallway stretching out ahead. But this time, your steps are slower. This time, you hope he’s watching.

And he is.

When the door closes behind you, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

NSFW bonus scene 🧢🐠 (female reader)

It starts with silence.

You’re standing just inside the workshop door, bag dropped, rain sliding down the windows behind you. You don’t know what made you come back — not really. You just knew the thought of leaving felt more like a loss than a choice.

He looks up. His brows twitch in confusion, but he doesn’t say anything.

So you walk up to him. Slow. Careful.

“Do you want me to stay?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

He swallows, throat working.

Then, simply:

“Yes.”

The word lands heavy. So much more than yes. Yes, I missed you. Yes, I thought about it. Yes, I don’t want this to end yet.

You kiss him.

It’s awkward, at first — all angles and hesitation. He doesn’t move right away, like he’s still computing what’s happening. But the second you breathe his name, something gives. His hands come up, hesitant but firm, catching your waist and pulling you closer like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

The kiss deepens, slow and uneven, as if he’s learning it in real time — a little desperate, a little stunned. His glasses nudge your cheekbone. His breath shakes against your lips. You slide your fingers into his hair and feel the shiver roll through him.

“You’re sure?” you murmur.

He nods, eyes locked to yours.

“Yeah. Fuck—yeah.”

You're on the workbench within minutes. It's cluttered and dusty, but neither of you care.

His mouth is at your neck now, hungry in a way that feels new — like he's been holding back for weeks, months. His hands are firm where they grip your hips, but his touch is almost reverent, like he's afraid to take too much all at once.

“Been thinking about this,” he says against your skin, low and wrecked. “You. That night you fell asleep in the AV room. The way you said my name.”

You exhale a shaky laugh.

“You’re such a freak.”

He huffs, presses a kiss to your collarbone.

“You like it.”

You do. God, you do.

His hands slide under your shirt, slow and searching. You lift your arms, and he helps pull it over your head with surprising care. His fingers brush over your chest, your stomach, reverent and unsure.

“You’re allowed to look,” you tease gently.

He does — and the way he looks at you makes your whole body flush.

“I’m not great at this,” he admits quietly. “Just... tell me if I mess something up.”

Your heart pulls. You cup his face and kiss him again, slower this time.

“You’re not messing anything up.”

When he finally touches you in earnest, it’s a little clumsy — he’s clearly overthinking, too aware of your reactions, too in his head — but it’s sweet. Honest. Every movement feels like it means something.

You guide his hand. Help him find the rhythm. And once he gets it—once he really sees the way your breath hitches and your hips shift—he gets bolder.

His mouth finds your chest. Then your stomach. He murmurs something against your skin, but it’s too quiet to catch.

You tangle your fingers in his hair and gasp when he finally pushes your underwear down and touches you properly — one finger, two, slow but insistent.

“Fuck, Kei—”

That’s what breaks him. Your voice like that. His name like that.

He presses his forehead to your shoulder, still working his fingers inside you, lips parted as he groans softly into your skin.

“Want you,” he says, low and ragged. “I—I wanna feel you. All of you.”

“Then take it,” you whisper. “I’m right here.”

It’s not fast. He makes sure you’re ready. Makes sure you’re looking at him when he finally pushes inside, like he needs to see you fall apart for him.

You breathe his name again and again, and every time you do, he fucks into you a little deeper. A little harder. Still holding back, like he's afraid of hurting you. But you can tell he’s close — his body trembles against yours, his breathing fractured and tight.

When you come, it’s with his name on your lips, your fingers digging into his back, your legs tight around his waist. He follows right after, buried deep, biting down softly on your shoulder to muffle the noise he makes.

He doesn’t move for a long time.

Just breathes with you. One hand tangled with yours, the other resting over your heartbeat.

“You still want me to come back?” you whisper after a while, voice hoarse.

He lifts his head. Meets your eyes.

“Only if you plan on staying.”

authors note: I absolutely loved writing this!! I hope I stayed true to tsukis character and I also hope your happy with your request! :) reqs are still open and very much welcome! ly all <3

#tsukishima kei #kei tsukishima #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu smut #haikyuu #tsukishima x reader #haikyuu tsukishima #tsukishima fluff #kei haikyuu #kei tsukishima smut #anime #tsuki haikyuu #request

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