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lovebugism · 4 months ago

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✶ ┄ LOVE AND MERCY !

summary: you're more stubborn than the apocalypse. eric is the personification of a sad, wet dog. your world's collide when the world as you know it ends. (6.3k)

pairing: eric (a quiet place day one) / f!reader

contents: strangers to friends to lovers, a couple of losers in love, apocalyptic setting, angst, hurt/comfort cw for mentions of grief and anxiety, brief mentions of injuries, and smut 18+

You wake up that morning in a bed that is not yours, in a room that does not belong to you, in an abandoned cabin you turned into a safe house three weeks ago.

Everything around you is foreign. Including the world outside these rotted walls, which turned entirely on its head in a blink. A blink that somehow turned into three months gone.

The only thing familiar to you now is the stranger lying in the bed beside you — on the right side that he has wordlessly claimed as his own. Before Eric was a guy you shared beds with, he was a guy you found in the rain. A boy with big, wet, puppy dog eyes who followed you like a stray after the world fell.

That was all he was to you for a month straight. A burden. Deadweight. An ever-anxious being that had nearly gotten you killed more times than you could count. You never saw him any differently until you almost died — a certain death involving you, an old beartrap, several aliens with uber-sensitive hearing, and a stupid boy who was too dumb to leave you behind.

“I can’t leave you,” Eric blubbered through tears, whimpering in faint whispers so the blind monsters wouldn’t hear. “I won’t.”

“Then you won’t make it at all, you idiot,” you spat through gritted teeth, eyes wide and stern and glittering. You wouldn’t let yourself cry, not even with your leg all but torn to shreds, but Eric’s sudden stubbornness scared you. Why now? Of all times? you thought to yourself, Why does he have to be so stubborn now?

“I wouldn’t want to,” Eric promised, bloodied hands trembling where they gripped your arms. “I wouldn’t want to make it without you.”

That was a month or so ago, but you carry the horrors of that day still.

In the vivid nightmares that rattle your bones. In the marred skin of your ankle, hidden beneath bandages, slowly healing with each passing day. And in the strange boy with puppy dog eyes who still hasn’t left your side.

Let me check your leg, Eric scribbles on a notepad.

His handwriting is slanted and small and hardly legible — fitting for a man whose mind is always racing faster than he can keep up.

The marker is fading slowly, too, dying from excessive use because the majority of your conversations are spoken through written words on a page. You’ve gone through a notebook or three already.

You snatch the notepad from his grip to write a response of your own. Eric peels the tattered blanket from your body to survey the gauze around your ankle. He peeks beneath the bandage, and his chest pinches at the sight — not because of his sensitive stomach, but because of the harsh reminder of the day he almost lost you.

The paper swishes faintly when you turn the notebook back to him. Okay, Dr. Eric :P, you’ve written in sloppy cursive. The boy grins at the mischievous look in your eyes.

“That’s Doctor Eric Esquire to you,” he corrects in a whisper that makes his accent sound more posh than usual. He smooths the gauze back into place with a gentle hand and says, “You’re healing fine, I think. I’ll have to go out and scavenge for more bandages soon, but these should last for another…”

The sounds of your rapid scribbling fill the quiet cabin. Eric trails off in wait, wide eyes darting from the marker in your hand to the pinched look of concentration on your face.

He sees a strange sort of giddiness sparking in your otherwise serious features that makes him fearful. Intrigued, yes, but still distantly fearful. All your ideas tend to get him into trouble.

The notebook turns to him again. His stomach does a backflip.

Wanna go on an adventure?

“This is… Not what I was expecting,” Eric muses beneath the sounds of a rushing waterfall.

His words echo slightly in the expanse of the dank cave. It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice in full volume, deep and accented and smooth. His pretty whispering annoyed you to no end back when he was just a stranger with exactly zero survival instincts. Now, you never want him to stop talking.

“Well, that’s why it’s an adventure,” you lilt, wiping water from your brow with the neck of your t-shirt.

Your clothes stick to you in places where the waterfall had splashed you on your way underneath it. The still air of the cave, strangely cool compared to the humid air outside of it, makes you fight back a shiver.

Eric eyes you from a distance, features swirled in a quiet concern. It’s impossible to relish in this little ounce of peace when you have the kind of mind he does — the kind of mind that’s always anxious and always filled with thoughts of you.

He cares so much for you, far more than he planned to, that it’s made him chronically fearful. He’s grown to realize, since he met you, that the two words are rather synonymous. You can’t have love without fear — and what is there to be fearful for, if not for the ones you love?

“Your bandages really shouldn’t be getting wet, you know?”

You scoff and limp further into the damp hollow. The quiet sound of your steps reverberates within the stone walls, along with the subtle scuffing of your bad foot. “You said I was healing okay, remember?” you huff and drop the basket in your elbow onto the cobblestone.

“I said you were healing fine,” Eric chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest. “There’s a difference.”

“Not really,” you shrug with a scrunched nose, flashing him a fleeting glance over your shoulder. You turn away again and wince at the distant ache in your ankle when you crouch.

Sometimes the scars hurt like they’re still fresh, still weeping scarlet and throbbing like a new wound. Eric’s not a doctor, but he tells you that it’ll probably be that way forever. “Phantom pains, I think they call it,” he says in a posh accent that makes him sound more official than he really is. You’re inclined to believe him, anyway.

The boy watches as you sort through the wicker basket you stole — or borrowed, as you claim, “’cause it’s not like the owner’s coming back for it anytime soon.” It’s full of stuff you wouldn’t let him see, like it was some kind of big secret.

He grimaces when you squat, putting unnecessary weight on a barely healing leg. He knows it hurts, even when you pretend it doesn’t — especially when you pretend it doesn’t. His chest pinches like the ache is his own. Like sympathy pains or something. He worries so much for you that you’ve given him fucking sympathy pains.

“We shouldn’t have left,” Eric agonizes, wiping a pair of anxious hands down his face. He swipes his fingers through his hair and finds the chestnut curls now partially damp. “I shouldn’t have let you leave. I mean, what if we have to run, huh? What if we have to—”

“We won’t,” you groan as you stand to full height again. You hold an old quilt in one arm and gesture wildly with the other. “That’s what the waterfall is for. They can’t hear us under here. Nothing’s coming.”

He knows you’re right, but it doesn’t worry him any less.

“How’d you even know this was out here?”

You falter for a moment. A mere blink of a second. But Eric catches it immediately because there isn’t anything about you he doesn’t instantly notice. He’s rarely ever seen you, his silver-tongued girl, so ambivalent. And something about it frightens him.

“I was… on a walk one day… while you were out scavenging—” you answer slowly, shrugging like it isn’t a big deal at all, though you immediately follow it with, “—Don’t get angry.”

Eric’s pink mouth falls softly agape, opening and closing like a fish’s might, while he tries to find the words to say. To shout. To scream.

“Y-You... You— You left without me?” he stammers, voice booming.

The words ring across the expanse of the shallow cave, bouncing off the damp stone walls. It’s the loudest he’s heard himself talk since the world ended, and the notion startles him. Like a dog just learning how to bark.

Eric’s breath hitches in his throat as his dark eyes widen in fear. He waits instinctively for the screeching of far-off monsters and their booming footsteps — prepares for an adrenaline rush that’ll give his weak arms the strength to carry both of you to safety.

It never comes.

The sounds of the waterfall shield you from the war raging outside of it.

When the panic passes, the anger resumes.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?” Eric agonizes, quieter now, though the corner of his lip twitches with withheld anger.

You keep your back to the boy and lay out the contents of the wicker basket. A floral quilt to cushion the stone flooring, two bottles of wine to share between you, several bags of stale chips, and one MP3 player that’s somehow stronger than the end of the world. You pay Eric no mind as he continues to rant behind you.

“What if you’d gotten killed? What if— What if you got lost and I couldn’t find you—?!”

“Don’t shout!” you gripe despite your own booming voice.

“Why not?” Eric questions with a cynical laugh. “I thought nothing could hear us under here?”

You spin back around to face him, grimacing slightly when your healing wounds start to burn. You tilt your chin in a look of defiance, though your eyes sparkle faintly in the dim natural light — something mischievous and strangely shy.

“I don’t want you to shout because I put a lot of effort into this,” you answer in a steady voice, lips quirking in a distant smile. “And we can’t enjoy it if you’re gonna be grumpy the entire time.”

Eric blinks at you for several long moments, brown eyes wide like an owl. Only then does he notice what you’d set up for him in the brief minutes he’d been blinded by his anger. A picnic of sorts — fashioned with a moth-eaten quilt, dusty wine bottles, and snacks you’d scavenged and seemingly stashed like a squirrel. It’s about as fancy as you can get in an apocalypse.

His mouth opens and closes again, this time in a quiet sort of shock. “Wh… What?”

“Well, you kinda spent your entire birthday taking care of me, so… I figured we were past due for a celebration.”

Eric’s brows pinch together. A furrow of deep thought settles between them.

He realizes he hadn’t thought twice about his birthday till now. Hadn’t thought twice about turning another year older, just like he hadn’t thought twice about needing to be repaid for taking care of you. He did both things without thinking. He can’t control his urge to dote on you like he can’t control the existential dread of getting older.

“How’d you know it was my birthday?”

“‘Cause you told me once,” you shrug. “And I keep track of the days in my calendar, so—”

“So, you’re saying that… That you did all this...” the man laughs, gesturing to the cave and the waterfall and the wine. “For me?”

A similar-sounding laugh sputters from your own mouth ‘cause you do it all for him. From going on stupid picnics to fighting monsters from another planet. Everything you’ve done up until this point, you realize now, you’ve done for Eric. You keep on living despite the unfavorable odds for Eric.

“Of course I did. It’s not that big of a deal,” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest to shield your bleeding heart. “I mean, you kinda saved my life. The least I can do is take you on a stupid fucking picnic.”

When you turn around again to ease yourself onto the blanket, Eric tries to make out the words to thank you. Not just for what you’ve done here, but for what you’ve done all the days since he found you. Because you’ve saved his life too, more times than he could count, actually — ‘cause that’s just what you do. You save each other and don’t think twice about it because that’s what you do when you care for someone.

He forgot all about birthdays and picnics and what it meant to be alive before he found you. And now that you’re here, you spend every single day reminding him of everything the end of the world begs him to forget.

“I’m— I’m sorry… I’m sorry for shouting at you,” Eric stammers in a sheepish murmur, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“I know,” you nod, smiling as you pat the spare spot beside you. “Now stop being weird and come sit down.”

The wine is warm, the chips are stale, and the quilt just barely cushions the hard ground beneath you — but everything’s still somehow perfect. Your MP3 player is almost as old as you are and cracked down the middle, but the music plays just perfectly from its headphones, anyway.

Maybe it’s perfect ‘cause it’s not perfect.

Or maybe it’s perfect because you’re here.

You sit side-by-side on the handmade blanket, legs crossed and knees brushing, as you share an earbud between you. Conversation ebbs and flows between snacking. Music fills the silence.

I was sittin’ in a crummy movie with my hands on my chin,

All the violence that occurs, seems like we never win...

Eric tips his head back to down the rest of the cheesy crumbs in the package he holds in a pale fist. His scruffy cheeks jut like a chipmunk as he chews through the mouthful. “I missed this, you know?” he mumbles.

You set the wine bottle beside you after taking a lengthy sip, licking the bitter-sweet grape from your lips. “What?” you wonder aloud. “The wine? The Cheetos? The music?”

The boy goes quiet as he ponders the question. He figures he was talking about you, mostly — this sort of connection between humans, this sort of comfort, this sort of normalcy. The music answers your question in his silence.

—Love and mercy, that’s what you need tonight…

So love and mercy, to you and your friends tonight…

He nods anyway. “All of the above, actually…”

“You know what I miss?” you wonder beneath the rustling of the Scooby Snacks you dig your hand into. You chuck a cartoon bone into your mouth and find the graham-cracker components have gone soft with time. “I miss driving down backroads… going way faster than what’s probably allowed… with the windows down and the radio all the way up…”

Eric watches the far-off look in your eyes as you stare, unblinking, at the waterfall ahead of you. Clear water rushes from the mountain and falls hard onto the cobbles and the still water below. Rogue drops splatter inside the shallow cave, occasionally splashing you with fat droplets.

The running waterfall cast fleeting shadows over your face, littered now with faint scars. Your features are much softer than he’s used to in the natural light.

“I miss college parties,” he confesses, wiping his palms on his knees.

You wash the dry graham cracker out with another sip of wine and try not to laugh as you swallow it down.

“Why’s that funny?” Eric wonders through his own chuckle, only partially offended.

“I don’t know… I guess I just didn’t take you for a partier.”

“I wasn’t really…” he concedes with a shy shrug, gaze averted and cheeks pink. “But I was a really big fan of karaoke.”

“Well, that makes a lot more sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” Eric humors with a scrunched nose.

You tilt your head back to laugh — a pretty, airy sound that echoes within the cobbled walls, only partially drowned out beneath the rushing waterfall. You shift closer toward him when you’re upright again, probably without realizing, but Eric notices. He can’t help but notice everything you do. And he can’t help but lean instinctively closer to you, too.

He can smell the natural scent of you beneath the various surrounding ones — of freshwater, pine, and whatever cologne was spritzed on your shirt before you found it. He can smell the sweet wine on your breath, too, and he quickly realizes that you’re close enough to kiss. If only he weren’t so chicken shit.

The proximity makes his cheeks flush, though you’re not nearly as fazed by it.

“I forgot what that felt like…” you muse in a quiet voice of disbelief.

Eric smiles so hard his eyes squint. “What?”

“I don��t know… just, like, happiness? I guess?” you laugh. “I used to think that was impossible before now.”

“Yeah… Me too.”

The conversation lulls for a moment. The music playing in your ears takes over:

—I was standing at a bar and watching all the people there…

All the loneliness in this world, well, it’s just not fair…

You cage your smile between your teeth in a feeble attempt to conceal how wide it’s grown. Your eyes are wide and sparkling, likely from the wine, as they flit between both of his darker ones. Eric exhales a breathy chuckle in response, all giddy and nervous for a reason he can’t name (probably from the wine, too, if he had to guess).

He feels himself leaning in to kiss you before he realizes it. He only catches himself when you pull unknowingly away, reaching again for the glass bottle at your side. His heart drops to his swirling stomach as his cheeks flare a deep pink.

“I’m glad you followed me like a creep for a week straight, you know that?” you confess with a teasing squint in your eyes as you bring the lip of the bottle to your mouth.

Eric scoffs at the memory, which feels like yesterday and ancient history all at once.

He was by himself when the world first fell — a stranger in a strange country, and the loneliest he’d ever been in his life. And, perhaps, the most scared, too.

Then, all of a sudden, he sees this girl rush out of an alleyway and into a monster-infested street to save a dog from an otherwise unavoidable death. Eric watched from a distance as you returned the scared pup to its owners — a very young couple cowering behind a car, not that much older than you.

You pointed them in the direction of a military base setting up camps for civilians then went the opposite way. Away from guaranteed protection. Like the safest hands were your own.

Eric made the quick decision to follow you as you went. He figured if you were brave enough to save some dog that wasn’t yours, and stare death directly in the face while you did it, then you could do just about anything.

He didn’t know, then, that he was making the best decision he’d ever made in his life.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t pummel me in the face for following you like a creep.”

“I should’ve,” you quip. “But I liked your company too much, I guess…”

“Liked?” the boy parrots, laughing loudly at the turn of phrase. “Is this your way of saying you’re finally tired of me?”

You roll your eyes and hide your smirk behind the neck of the wine bottle. “Do you think I would’ve done all this shit if I wasn’t the least bit fond of you, Eric?”

The question is rhetorical, but you expect a lighthearted quip from the British boy anyway. Your words seem to settle something heavy on him, though. It’s the very first time you’ve admitted out loud, without a shred of sarcasm, how much you really care for him.

Eric forgets to say anything at all. The cave fills with a loud silence. The steady drumming of the waterfall and the whisper of rustling trees. Strangely peaceful for the end of the world.

“Wanna know something wild?” he asks you after a few long moments. His accent makes the words sound heavy on his tongue. Your brows raise to egg him on, and he continues, stumbling over himself in the process. “I’m… I’m not happy the world ended, but… I am— I am glad that it brought me you.”

Your breath catches. It’s the most profound thing anyone’s ever said to you, you think. Way deeper than any measly ‘I love you.’ And how are you meant to respond to that? To his confession that the end of the world was worth finding you? There’s no string of words in the English language that could possibly compare to that.

Eric waits for your response with bated breath. He hopes for an affirmation of your similar affection, of course, but a rejection would be better than nothing at all. He blinks at you with hopeful chocolate eyes, then flinches away when you laugh.

“You’re such a sap,” you say, giggling, as you reach suddenly for his face.

You cradle his scruffy jaw between warm and gently calloused hands, pulling him into you with an admirable effortlessness. You kiss him like it’s natural to you — like he was never just a stranger — like you’ve spent entire lifetimes kissing him.

You take the breath from his lungs with little effort. Eric tips his head back and sighs when you swipe your tongue along his chapped bottom lip. The exhaled breath fans across your cupid’s bow, and you smile against his mouth as you clamor gracelessly into his lap — straddling his lean hips and pressing your beating heart to his.

The earbuds fall carelessly to the ground, and the fading song plays muffedly from beside you:

—Love and mercy, that’s what you need tonight…

So love and mercy, to you and your friends tonight…

Your mouths click when they part, a subtle sound beneath the drumming waterfall behind you. Your eyes are heavy and lidding as they fall to Eric’s kissed mouth — now a rosier shade, gently swollen, and shining with your spit. A stamp of ownership, almost, that makes your chest swell with pride.

Eric looks up at you with big, wet eyes as his hands fidget on either side of your waist. “I’ve been waiting for that for ages,” he confesses in a low murmur.

A small smile quirks faintly at the edges of your mouth. “Could you maybe say something that’s not super cliché?” you tease.

“How about… I really, really want to kiss you again?” Eric offers in a honeyed tone that makes his accent heavier. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “And that I… I wanna make you feel good?”

You cage your bottom lip between your teeth to hide your smile. Your fingertips are calloused and cold as they toy with the curls at the nape of his neck — tiny chestnut strands coiled in perfect ringlets. Eric fights back a shiver.

“Then I’d say that…” you begin with a mischievous lilt to your voice, wild eyes flitting from his pink lips to his watery eyes. “I’ve been waiting for that for ages.”

You part from him then, taking the warmth of your body with you as you sit on your knees across from him. The rugged ground is hardly cushioned by the thin quilt. You can vaguely feel small rocks digging into your skin, but your need for him is much louder.

You cross your arms in front of yourself to swipe your t-shirt over your head. You toss the discarded fabric carelessly beside you, then work at the buttons of your jeans — also borrowed, and just a half-size too big for you.

Eric watches with his heart in his throat. It’s the most naked you’ve ever been in front of him before. The sight of your bare skin, covered now only in the sports bra you’ve had since the world ended, makes his head swim. It takes him a moment too long to realize he should be undressing, too, and he rushes to catch up.

The two of you undress yourselves in relative silence. The sight is hardly as sexy as you’d expect — full of fumbling limbs far too eager to be graceful. Eric’s shirt gets stuck on his chin. Your jeans get caught at your ankle. The tense lull between you ebbs into a symphony of entwining giggles.

With your clothes scattered in abandoned piles, you lay back against the blanket. Eric settles on top of you with a strange sort of effortlessness — like it’s muscle memory to him, even though neither of you has done this for a long, long while — much less with each other.

The weight of his body is warm and heavy over yours. You slide your hands under his arms and curl them over his freckled shoulders, digging your nails softly into his pale skin to pull him further into you.

You watch with heavily lidded eyes as Eric brings his hand to his mouth. He slides his pointer and middle finger between his lips, wetting the pads of them with his tongue. You exhale a deep breath when the limbs come out again, glittering in the low light.

He studies your features with a dark and unwavering stare as he slips his fingers between the lips of your pussy — tracing the velvety lips for a moment before easing them slowly inside. Your eyes flutter shut at the foreign feeling. Eric smiles to himself, wrist flexing, as he explores your silky cunt with his fingers.

“Please fuck me,” you sigh when his palm bumps your swollen clit. Your head tips back as your hips buck upward, all but melting under his touch. “Please.”

It takes Eric a moment or more to formulate a response. You’ve never been so subservient like this before, so needy for him. This must be the eighth wonder of the world, he thinks to himself, as he continues to work you open with unworthy hands.

“Have to get you ready for me first,” he tells you, voice and low gritty, as he exhales a breathy chuckle that fans across your jaw. “Don’t wanna break you, honey.”

You manage a scoff in response. “Well, that’s very presumptuous of you— oh…”

Eric crooks his fingers until the tips of them brush a spongy depth inside you. Your mouth falls agape at the feeling, so foreignly full beneath him. His spit-slick lips curl into a lazy smirk. “That shut you up, didn’t it?”

You would’ve spit a snide remark back at him if his thumb hadn’t pressed so mercilessly to your delicate clit then. The words dissolve like dust on your tongue and escape only as a breathy moan.

Eric continues his relentless pursuit with nothing but two of his fingers. Relentless, you think,because he’s hardly trying to make you cum now. You’re not sure if he’s just oblivious to how good he’s making you feel, or if he’s pushing you to the edge and jerking you back on purpose. It’s agony either way.

He only stops when his pointer and middle finger start to prune, the pads of them softly wrinkled from your honey. He wipes them off on the quilt like a total barbarian. You would’ve said something about that, too, if you weren’t still trying to catch your breath.

Eric rises to his knees. His bare chest, dusted with sparse hair over the sternum, rises and falls with uneven pants. His cock hangs heavy between his spread thighs — half-hard, glowing red, and leaking faintly at the tip. His wide hands are softer than your own as they smooth up and down the length of your thighs. His thumbs rub soothingly over the supple insides of them — with a touch almost as gentle as the melted chocolate gaze he looks at you with.

“Are you alright?” he wonders, all quiet and suddenly shy, like you aren’t all but dripping for him now.

“You’re so annoying,” you gripe with a scoffed-out laugh, rolling your eyes because you’re certain he’s teasing you. Your stomach sinks when the genuine glimmer in his eyes doesn’t waver. You squirm beneath him and his unyielding gaze. “I’m okay, Eric,” you murmur sheepishly, never easily serious.

He nods to himself and swallows hard, still visibly unsure. It makes you wonder if he’s second-guessing. “Stop staring and kiss me, you asshole,” you grouse with a forced laugh, tightening your grip on his shoulders.

Eric’s mouth quirks in an absentminded smile. “Just let me look at you for a second…” he whispers, squeezing the outsides of your thighs with warm hands.

“We don’t have to whisper anymore, dummy,” you tease in a hushed tone of your own.

His grin widens until his eyes wrinkle at the edges and his tongue pokes softly through his teeth. He laughs despite himself and grips his heavy cock in his fist. “You’re so mean, you know that?” he asks, folding your knee back with his free hand. You’re not sure if he’s expecting a real response, but he slips into you before you can give him one.

He fucks into you slow — bitterly, painfully, and agonizingly slow — forcing you to feel every inch of him. His cock is of average length, but girthy enough to stretch you open. You’re suddenly grateful he thought to use his fingers on you despite your impatience, but the two of them alone hardly equate to how thick he is.

Both of you inhale sharply when he’s fully sheathed inside of you, neither exactly used to the feeling. Eric allows you a moment or more to adjust before sliding out again. You exhale softly together in entwining moans that get lost beneath the sounds of a raging waterfall.

Eric thrusts into you again with gritted teeth, trying not to whimper too loudly when your pussy clenches around him. He bends at the waist to hide his face in your neck and exhales all his pathetic moans there.

He keeps one hand clenched into a fist on the blanket to prop up his weight; his other slides beneath your head to cushion your skull from the hard ground. You grip the boy by his flexing biceps, digging your nails into the skin every time he thrusts into you. Jaw clenched, nose scrunched, eyes squinted — you take his cock without complaint despite the very loud feeling that it’s all too much for you.

Eric is everywhere, and the notion alone overwhelms you. He’s in you, on top of you, all over you. Like the air you breathe. You need him just the same. Not because he’s your friend but because you’re scared you might seriously die without him.

It’s dramatic at best. At worst, it’s the exact opposite feeling you should have for anyone in the apocalypse, where death is essentially promised for both of you.

Tears prick your eyes at the thought, though you’d rather blame them on Eric’s merciless thrusts. They’re sloppy and unmeasured as he struggles to find a rhythm. He’s similarly overwhelmed by the pleasure. You can tell by the way his body trembles over yours, and the way he buries loud moans into your pulsepoint. You can feel the vibrations of each moan in your veins.

The way you’re pinned beneath him cages your clit between your bodies. Every time Eric’s lean hips thrust upward and back again, the coarse thatch of hair above his cock brushes your sensitive button. You couldn’t free yourself from it if you tried. You’re not sure if you even want to.

“This is good for you, right?” Eric wonders through heavy pants, voice wavering under the weight of his pleasure. “Please tell me this is good for you.”

Any other time, you would’ve laughed at him, but now you only nod. Rapidly and with your jaw clenched tight. Just as pathetic as he is.

“’S good,” you promise through gritted teeth as the coil in the pit of your stomach starts to tighten. “It’s so good, Eric. Feels so fuckin’ good.”

The affirmation makes him moan. Loudly. Enough for you to be momentarily grateful for the cover of the rumbling waterfall. Eric buckles down over you and strengthens his rapid, irregularly timed thrusts with a feeble cry.

Your own whine rumbles in your throat, falling from your mouth like honey. Your warm skin, now slick with a layer of sweat, begins to buzz. The need for release builds like a dam within you — somewhere deep, right where the tip of Eric’s cock fucks into you.

Your thighs start to tremble on either side of his waist. Your hips begin to buck despite yourself. You can’t be sure if you’re running from the pleasure now, or chasing it entirely.

“You gotta cum, baby,” Eric tells you through a pitiful whine, face still tucked into your neck. He licks his lips and starts to babble: “I can’t— I’m too close— I need you to cum before I do, baby— Need you to cum right now— Fuck.”

“Is your idea of dirty talk always this pathetic?” you would’ve joked if you weren’t already cumming for him.

Your mouth falls agape in a silent moan as your head tips back into his palm. Your back arches as you reach the height of your pleasure, pussy fluttering through every wave of it.

Eric fucks you the entire way through your orgasm — despite your nails biting crescent shapes into his shoulders, despite your velvety cunt tightening around him, despite the very overwhelming feeling that he might burst entirely.

Only when your body goes lax does he pull out of you.

The empty feeling makes you whimper. Your weeping pussy clenches around nothing while Eric jerks himself off. You can’t see him, but you can feel his wrist moving in rapid motions between your legs.

A groan rumbles deep in his throat as he tenses on top of you. His still body goes rigid. Something warm and wet spits on your inner thigh a second later — a heavy load of his pearly white cum, which he gives you three of before he’s milked himself dry.

Eric collapses on top of you when he’s officially spent. He forgets to hold up his weight, and you deliberately decide not to remind him. You let the man soak in the waves of his pleasure while you strain to reach the wicker basket at your side — struggling for a moment to find the handful of napkins at the very bottom, then using them to wipe up the mess on your thigh.

“Ah, shit,” Eric curses when he notices (his mess or his weight, you can’t quite tell). He sniffles and rolls off of you. “Sorry…”

Your head whips in his direction. You find his face all flushed, glowing red along the apples of his cheeks and the very tip of his nose. His eyes are big and wet, too, glassy like he might cry.

Buzzing with concern, you rise to your knees, watching intently as Eric reaches for your discarded pile of clothes. You set them aside when he passes them to you and hold his face in your hands instead. His stubble scratches at your delicate palms. Your wide eyes sparkle with concern as they dart over his teary features.

“Hey… Hey, what happened?” you agonize. “Are you okay?”

Eric laughs at himself, then sniffles again as he wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “Yeah… So much for not being cliché, right?” he jokes.

“What happened?” you repeat, giggling this time at his crooked smile.

“Nothing,” he assures, shrugging his freckled shoulders. “I just… I’m just really happy, I guess…”

Your tight chest deflates with a sigh of relief as you nod in response. “Yeah… I am, too.”

Eric’s grin widens at your confession. His cheeks speckle a rosy color, like he’s pleasantly surprised by the response — as if his softening cock isn’t still sparkling with a mixture of your cum.

You meet his smile with a scowl, rolling your eyes as you shove playfully at his shoulder. “Don’t look at me like that,” you grumble and turn away from him, reaching for your clothes.

Your body looms over him as you stand, putting very little weight on your scarred leg. You bend at the waist to tug your underwear up your thighs.

Eric shoves his boxers on with a cheeky grin. “I’m really glad I found you, you know that, right? Even though you’re mean to me all the time?”

You scoff and drag your sports bra over your torso, yanking it at the hem to pull it over your breasts. “I’m happy you found me, too, stalker,” you respond in a monotone that would otherwise suggest the opposite. But Eric catches you smiling when you reach beside him for your shirt and knows you really mean it.

“You love me,” he insists playfully, right before stealing a kiss from you.

His lips only manage to brush the corner of your mouth in his haste, but he grins wide about it anyway. Your face screws like you weren’t begging him to fuck you ten minutes ago, as you wipe your cheek with the back of your hand.

“You’re disgusting…” he hears you mumbling as you turn away, tugging your shirt over your head.

But he knows what you really mean.

#published by bug #eric a quiet place day one x reader #eric a quiet place day one #eric a quiet place x reader #eric a quiet place x you #eric x reader #eric x you #eddie munson smut #joseph quinn #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn smut #eric aqpdo #eric aqpdo x reader #a quiet place day one #misc oneshots

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lokisgoodgirl · 5 months ago

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loki stuffing your panties into ur mouth to keep u quiet while fucking u in the empty throne room !!!

Don't mind if I do. 😎🩲 Ps. I HC that Asgardians don't really do underwear, so we have something else instead.🧤

Throne

Warnings: Smut/ Soft dom! King! Loki/ Gagging/ Breeding kink elements. I've been off work this afternoon so rattled this out, apols for any snaffoos - I'm in a bubbly mood today so fancied some filth. w/c 750 A link to my masterlist is here

Loki’s angular face is all sharpness and shadows in the gloom of a hundred torches lining the wall.

“Closer,” he orders, and you obey. Your eyes flicker penitently from the floor, pinning on his as you climb the steps. His leather-gloved fingers toy leisurely with the strap around his hips; the pop of metal buttons echoing. Everyone else is at the feast, and the throne room has never looked more beautiful: like a glittering, golden tomb. This isn’t what you expected when the king slipped you a note in the great hall – but now you’re here, you can’t imagine it being anything else.

“Closer,” he says again.

One corner of his mouth curls. You gasp as he reaches out, pulling you to his lap in one harsh movement and the iron meat of his bound cock slams against your clit. Loki’s hands run covetously up your thighs, pushing the chiffon dress around your hips. “Ore and blood,” he breathes, slipping a finger between your folds and thrumming against your clit. "I've wanted you all night. Hel's fire, you have no conception of how much." A strangled moan scrapes from your throat, and immediately the free hand not making lazy circles on your cunt is pressed to your mouth. “Quiet,” he warns gruffly. The god’s hair is glossy in torchlight; tangled with a sheen like magpie wings. He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Use your hands. Quickly.” You grasp against his crotch, sliding a hand inside his leathers and curling around what lies within. Your eyes widen, and Loki’s amused expression twists to pleasure as your grip tightens. He's as hard as the marble pillars. “Gods, how I’ve wanted this,” he says breathlessly as you shift up and hover over the tip. “Say it?” you beg, brushing the head of his legendary cock against your slit. “Please…”

Pearls of sweat glisten on Loki’s forehead, and he looks up beneath those dark lashes, his bottom teeth jutting forward as he tries to restrain himself from thrusting into you like the sexual beast he is. “I command you to fuck the king, as you were born to do,” he drawls with all the regal arrogance you’d requested. Your slippery pussy edges down the god’s length, meeting the root with a filthy growl from his throat. Loki’s hands fly to the arms of the throne, and you’re sure his knuckles are whitening beneath those slutty leather gloves as you begin to rock against him. Your groans sound like music in the empty hall; bouncing between pillars of marble like mockingjay song. “Quiet,” he grits, brows peaking. “You’ll alert…a-alert the guards.” You tighten around his cock in response and give an insolent, echoing whine of pleasure. Without another word Loki brings his hands together and peels one tight, leather glove in front of your face. You follow his movements as he plucks the tips of his fingers: one, by one, by one. “Don’t…fucking…stop,” he enunciates slowly – and a thrill of dangerous desire swells in your lower belly. His face is clouded with manufactured disdain as you moan again, squeezing around the fat, sensitive tip before sinking to the base with a rattle of his name.

It’s interrupted by Loki’s fingers flying to your jaw; stuffing the leather glove inside your open mouth. You choke on nothing, eyes wide and cunt throbbing.

“There. The perfect angle for me to fuck you full of myself: here where you belong…me on my throne, and you on yours.” Loki’s eyes blaze as his grip moves to your ass, pulling you flush to his chest; buried against your cleavage and thrusting so deep you think you might shatter. “When the king tells you to keep your voice down, he means it,” Loki whispers hot in your ear. He releases a disgustingly gravelled rasp of pleasure as his one gloveless hand tangles in your hair. It pulls gently while the other guides your hips: leather sticking to the sweat misting your skin.

A muffled moan of understand is all you can muster as Loki’s cock stretches you; his pubic hair tugging your clit; an orgasm so powerful welling between your thighs you could swear the throne was trembling. The leather stuffed between your lips tastes warm; oak-birch undertones of his natural scent making you dizzy. Even if you both screamed your orgasms to the old gods, the guards won’t come, they know better than that. And he knows it, too.

“Where better for my glorious wife to conceive a future king than on my throne,” Loki growls, his voice beginning to break as it comes undone. His mind, too. And as he does, unhinged and bucking everything he has inside your heat – so do you.

The glove isn’t enough to stifle the cry of his name in your throat - it never is.

-----

👑❤️x Tags in comments as per.

#loki smut #loki x reader #loki laufeyson #loki x reader smut #loki x female reader #loki x you #loki x you smut #loki drabble #loki imagine #lokismut #smut

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3rdgymbros · 26 days ago

Text

━ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐎𝐟 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐞 (𝐕𝐢𝐥).

— pairing; vil schoenheit x ramshackle! reader

— summary; you make out with vil, cue his walk of shame back to his own dorm.

— notes; please donate to my kofi if you like my work. and know that i am mentally smooching everyone who reblogs my stuff.

❋ It had been a surprise when Vil had shown up at your doorstep this late in the evening, bearing some new skincare product or another and insisting that it would do wonders for your acne-prone skin.

❋ He’d gone out of his way to make the long trek over to Ramshackle, and so you’d invited him in, half-expecting him to decline since your dorm was old, dusty, and generally below his standards.

❋ You didn’t think that he’d actually agree.

❋ And you didn’t think that things would . . . Escalate.

❋ (Note to self: Vil Schoenheit apparently has a thing for your granny pyjamas. Or maybe it’s a thing for the person wearing them. Who knew?)

❋ To his credit, Vil tries to exercise some restraint at first. Just a kiss. Maybe two. But every time he tries to pull back, you’ll look up at him with unfocused eyes and a soft plea on your swollen lips, making him lean in again with a smirk and a sigh as he sinks deeper into the kiss, into you.

❋ Somewhere in the heat of things, he loses track of time entirely, and by the time he realizes he should be heading back to Pomefiore, it’s way past curfew. The haze of lust quickly clears once he catches sight of the alarm clock on your nightstand. There's no way he's making it back without attracting attention.

❋ He quickly disentangles himself from you (no matter how much you pout and beg for ‘just one more’), and turns his attention to fixing his makeup.

❋ He’s absolutely horrified once he catches a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror. Smudged lipstick, mussed hair, flushed cheeks, wrinkled shirt — how positively unbecoming! Vil Schoenheit doesn’t get caught looking disheveled.

❋ Unfortunately, there aren’t many high-end makeup products available to him in Ramshackle right now. Sighing heavily, Vil makes a mental note to start leaving some of his own products in your drawer, especially if these romantic escapades are to continue.

❋ He’s almost tempted to cast a small glamour to cover up the evidence. Almost. He’s Vil Schoenheit, after all, and the idea of concealing a makeup smudge feels both laughable and tragic to him. No, he’ll wear the consequences of your enthusiastic show of affection.

❋ He leaves with his head held high, hoping that with his usual haughty attitude and poise, no one will dare comment on his lateness . . . And more importantly, his appearance.

❋ No such luck.

❋ The first person he encounters on his way back is none other than Rook, who seems to appear out of thin air with glittering eyes and a knowing smile. “Ah, the scent of amour is unmistakable! You must have been at Ramshackle, non?”

❋ Vil can feel his cheeks pinkening as he hisses at Rook to keep it down. “Not. Another. Word. Understood?”

❋ He can’t catch a break in the dorm, either. It seems as though everyone is awake even at this god-forsaken hour, lining the hallways, pointing and staring and whispering. Vil grits his teeth and presses on, unwilling to falter when he’s almost made it to the safety of his room. Internally, he’s wishing he’d come in through the back door or, better yet, stayed hidden in Ramshackle.

❋ Finally, just when he thinks he’s in the clear, Epel catches sight of him, and opens his mouth. Vil raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow, daring him to try, and Epel shuts his mouth (he does start laughing once Vil is out of earshot, though).

❋ Once he’s back in the relative safety of his expansive room, Vil tosses his coat upon his bed and heaves a sigh of relief, catching his breath before he cleans up and does his nighttime skincare routine. His eyes flicker to the smudge of your lipstick on his collar with a little smile . . . Though he’ll never admit he didn’t wash it out right away.

#vil schoenheit x reader #vil schoenheit imagines #vil schoenheit fluff #vil schoenheit headcanons #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland reader insert #twst imagines #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland headcanons #twisted wonderland imagines

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g1rld1ary · 20 days ago

Text

our names in the paper - footballer!james potter x fem!sports journalist!reader

wc: 11,151

cw: swearing, fade to black but suggestive moments?, smoking, slut-shaming, kissing

info: r and james are about 24, set in 2007ish solely for the romcom vibes. james is the equivalent of like David Beckham in his prime, all pics are for vibes only, not reflective of r's appearance etc

me: i've been working on this for soooo long i am so happy it's finally done!! if u couldn't tell it's very inspired by early 2000s romcoms and i am honestly so proud of it so praying it doesn't flop LOL

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

"James, James! Over here! What's the defence strategy this season?"

If you had to hear James' name one more time you might scream. Unfortunately, you were locked in a room with nothing but that. Worse, you were part of the problem.

"Mister Potter, what do you think about your striker's goal-to-game ratio falling rapidly this season?" You called, begrudgingly hoping for a moment of the soccer star's attention. Fortunately (or unfortunately), his glittering eyes settled on you, singling you out from the room of hungry journalists.

"I think that you miss one hundred per cent of the shots you don't take," He said, smirk turning to something challenging, "And as long as my team is training and working together, I'm not gonna cry over a bit of spilt milk or missed goals. And, as far as I'm concerned we're still winning games, aren't we?" You rolled your eyes, scribbling down his answer nonetheless.

You continued the catfight of trying to get answers for your newest article, keeping the balance of vying for James' attention and showing him you didn't care for him personally, unlike the other journalists you were pushing against. The conference room was full of men and women who wanted to be James or be with him. Aside from the professional questions, there were certainly several invitations to the pub thrown around, and you were sure you saw one woman try and give him her cellphone number. You rolled your eyes again at that, James was nothing to fawn over.

He might be a big shot now, but you'd known him almost all your life. The two of you had gone to school together and had bickered through every interaction since then. James had always wanted to be a football star, and you a journalist. You'd never believed in him and vice versa, both of you taking every opportunity to tease the other or cut each other down. Maybe it was just clashing personalities, two people too ambitious to be friends. The rivalry had lasted past school, and unfortunately, the two of you often crossed paths in your respective careers.

The press conference wrapped up soon after your question, and you ended up lingering in the room trying to finish your notes. James was still over at his podium next to his coach, drinking out of a plastic water bottle and arduously texting on his flip phone. Seeing you hovering by the door he called your last name, sauntering up behind you. You rolled your eyes and braced yourself for the encounter.

"Potter." You smiled curtly, moving to leave.

"You don't have to call me 'Mr Potter' during the conferences, you know. James is perfectly fine, everyone else calls me that."

"Just trying to stay professional," You said through gritted teeth, aware his coach and a few others were still around you. It could cost you your job to snap at him.

"Was it professional when I was your first kiss?" He stepped closer and you instinctively stepped back, feeling the plaster wall graze your back through your work blazer.

"It was spin the bottle and we were twelve, it's ancient history. And do you mind? I know you're some kind of god around here but I have a reputation to uphold," You whispered, glancing around anxiously. James laughed at your distress which only annoyed you further. Maybe he could get away with anything, but you had to fight for your place in your field as a female sports journalist, you couldn't afford to take it lightly.

You couldn't help the physical reaction to being trapped between James and the wall though, your breathing shallow and quick, face tilted up slightly to look at him. You felt a bit like prey, caught in the predator's territory and resigned to imminent death.

"Let her go, will you? She's just doing her job," Remus Lupin said, entering the conference room with his nose crinkled from the smell. You couldn't blame him, sweaty players and hungry journalists didn't make any kind of utopia together.

"I wasn't doing anything!" James cried, hands up in surrender, "Come on love, I was just giving you the scoop, right?"

"First of all, if you were giving me 'the scoop' right now I'd certainly be accused of sleeping to the top by all the blokes waiting out there," You gestured to the group of other reporters still lingering in the hall waiting for any scraps of information, "And secondly, I work for the bloody Sunday People, not the BBC. I honestly think they'd rather I just write about your 'dashing good looks' or a drug scandal than your games," You complained, falling back into the ease of conversation now that Remus was there. He'd been at school with the both of you, growing up to be a physiotherapist, but was always much more palatable than James.

Both men laughed at your plight.

"If you ever need a more detailed look at my dashing good looks just ask, sweetheart. I'd be glad to show you, you know, for your articles." You rolled your eyes at James' attempt to be charming, snapping your notebook shut.

"Alright, I think that's my cue to go," You said curtly, smoothing out your work trousers. "Remus, I'll return Dracula next time I see you; I'm almost finished." You remembered you'd had his novel for quite a while, sparing him a smile on the way out.

"You lend her books?" James asked incredulously, hazel eyes curiously following your figure down the hall. Remus just shrugged, patting James on the shoulder and attending to his actual job, checking up on the players after the match.

James was still hung up on the fact when he returned to the apartment he shared with Remus and Sirius, flabbergasted as he hung his coat on the rack.

"Since when are you two close enough to be sharing books?" He cried as he paced through the kitchen, "Have we not all been in agreement that she is stubborn and hard-headed and annoying and has been since school?"

"No," Remus shook his head, "You decided that, and I daresay she feels the same about you. I've always rather liked her."

James was unexpectedly dumbfounded at the realisation that you weren’t the common enemy he thought you were. Even Sirius didn’t seem to dislike you, always stopping for a chat when you were around the stadium and giving you extra comments with a flirty wink.

James didn’t need to think about you for another few weeks; his team hadn’t played one week and you’d been assigned other matches for the others — he read your very amusing pieces on lawn bowls and chess-boxing, partly because he knew you’d hate the assignment.

You were blissfully apart until one Saturday night. You were out with your friends and a few coworkers and James was out with his. He’d started in the local pub while you were at a fancy cocktail restaurant for Lily’s bachelorette party, however, your groups crossed paths in the depths of a nightclub.

Maybe you were getting too old for them, waking up with sore backs and knees after nights of dancing, but it didn’t mean you wouldn’t give it a red hot go. And with a few cocktails in your system, nobody could convince you it wasn’t a good idea.

You'd been shaking what your mother gave you for the better part of an hour before it was your turn to get another round, telling the girls you'd be back before stumbling through a sea of sweaty bodies.

Some gross man who was definitely too old for you obstructed your path, grabbing your arms to make you dance with him. Your face crinkled in disgust of its own accord, trying to wiggle yourself free. He continued to encroach on your space, forcing you around despite your persistence. Finally, a man's hands landed on his shoulders, yanking him away and subsequently freeing you from his grasp. The momentum sent you tumbling in your strappy heels, right into something warm and solid. You cringed, having been there before. You turned slowly to meet your unwitting saviour, huffing when you realised it was James.

"Oh, fuck off," You grumbled, mostly to yourself, producing a quick apology to not seem totally impolite.

"Alright?" Sirius asked, revealing himself as the one who'd gotten you away from the creep. You shrugged, fixing your hair.

"Been better," You told him, preparing to leave before seemingly their whole team had surrounded you, all greeting you loudly. You weakly waved at them, feeling dreadfully underdressed and professional. You were used to seeing them in the stadium and press conferences where you were much more modestly dressed. The strapless mini dress wasn't giving you the same layer of protection.

"Right," You said when there didn't seem to be any more productive conversation happening, "I'm off to the bar then."

"Let me buy you a drink, to make up for the freak," One of the players, Frank, said. You smiled but shook your head.

"I'm buying for several, it wouldn't be fair. It's Lily's bachelorette." You directed the last sentence to those who knew her, the football and journalism professions having considerable overlap due to events and the never-ending scandals and interviews. James covered his face in mock-devastation.

"Not Lily! Have I missed my chance forever?" He moaned, earning some shoves from the rest of the group. You and Lily had been friends since uni, and you'd introduced her to the boys at one of the terrible house parties you'd endured over your three years studying. James had developed a thing for her right away (no one knew how much of it was serious and how much was for comedic value) and had been loudly pining for her ever since, despite her long-term relationship with Dirk Cresswell, an economist who worked in the building down the block from your office.

"I think you missed your chance the first time," You retorted with a snort, a little drunk to have any ferocity in your tone. You both made a face at each other, ignoring the laughter of those around you. You dismissed the group and danced away, shaking your arse over to the bar.

A few rounds later and you were not in your best shape. The girls had been absolute menaces, feeding you shots and deceiving colourful cocktails that actually held like seven standards in them, and you were certainly feeling the effects. You excused yourself from the group to find a loo, bile rising in your throat as you pushed past dancers, not even sparing a comment for James as you saw him.

That confused both James and his friends, becoming used to your insistent teasing over the years. He exchanged a look with Sirius, following you through the crowd and to the bathrooms.

He figured something was wrong when you burst into the gender-neutral bathrooms, not bothering to lock the door behind you. James and Sirius silently fought about who was going to follow you in and check on you; James found you insufferable, Sirius had severe emetophobia and would probably throw up himself if he had to be close to you vomiting. James rolled his eyes, it was his responsibility. Sirius clapped him on the back gratefully, leaving him to return to the others. James sighed, reciting some affirmations before he cracked the door open, calling out to you.

When you responded with a disgusting wretch, James slipped inside, gagging a little as he saw you leant over the toilet bowl, bare knees on the grimy tile floor.

"Alright?" He asked for lack of anything better, unsurprised when you replied with another gag.

"I feel ill," You said pathetically, head hung low in the bowl which James knew you would resent tomorrow. He laughed quietly, getting closer to you.

"No shit, idiot," His tone was light as he began to rub your back softly, making sure your hair was away from your mouth. You vomited a few more times, your body reacting in violent hurls as James tried to be both soothing and as far away as possible.

When your stomach was finally empty you slumped against the toilet, cheek pressed against the cool porcelain.

"Woah," James pulled you up to a sitting position, "That cannot be good for your skin. Let's get you home, okay?" You nodded petulantly, letting yourself be led out through the club, James telling Lily he'd make sure you got home (and congratulated her on the upcoming wedding).

"Can we get some gum or something? My throat tastes like vom." James looked down at you from where you were lodged into his side, legs shaky as you wobbled down the street. He sighed and steered you in the direction of a convenience store, picking out strawberry gum for you since it tasted better than mint, your words. Good you thought when he paid for it, the football star can shell out 2 pounds, makes more than you anyhow.

You chewed happily, stumbling down the pavement as James held onto you, keeping you upright.

"You're so muscly," You said, somewhat in a drunken haze.

"Thank you?" James laughed, patting you softly on the forearm he was holding. To be fair, you weren't quite sure if it was a compliment either. Your words were admittedly oddly nice but your tone made it confusing, drunk thoughts not completely translating to sober dynamics.

You meandered for a few oddly peaceful minutes, neither of you starting an argument or picking a fight. It was a nice break from normal, the two of you even sharing some peaceful small talk -- discussing a movie you'd both seen recently.

Of course, nothing good lasts.

"James!" A voice yelled from the other side of the street, a short man with mousy mannerisms. James groaned beside you.

"Peter Pettigrew," He whispered to you, trying to pull you along faster, "We used to be mates but turns out he was just using me to get team secrets out into the papers." You whipped your head around to look at him. Oh! You knew Pettigrew, unsurprising given you both reported on essentially the same topics, but he had a bad name even in your circles. He was closer to a paparazzi than a journalist, going for the cheap stories and ad hominem approaches rather than searching for any meaningful insights. Simply put, in an already sleazy career, Peter Pettigrew was the bottom of the barrel.

"Later, mate. I'm in the middle of something right now." James put his arm around your shoulder, better shielding you as he tried to make a getaway. The telltale flash of a camera reflected off the grey pavement, making both you and James whip your heads around to face Peter, looking hardly ashamed of himself. After a moment of shock, you both covered your faces, stumbling down the street as fast as you could manage. The damage was already done.

Suddenly you didn't feel as drunk, navigating the cobblestone streets with unanticipated nimbleness. James might've had the athlete's advantage but you were on home turf, leading him through local shortcuts and to the front door of your apartment building.

On the journey over you'd attracted a few more photographers all fiending for a scandalous picture of James, a small mob forming as you tried to punch in the door code despite your shaking hands. James was right behind you, front pressed to your back, holding his Adidas windbreaker out in a position to shield your face from the prying eyes.

You slammed the door shut, the nosy questions and camera clicks immediately muffled. James let out a long sigh, running a hand through his already tousled hair. Neither of you spoke for a while, processing what had happened.

"Make yourself at home then." You cringed as you surveyed the state of your flat; clothes flung over chairs and dishes still in the sink. Your only option for living alone was cramming all your stuff into what was essentially a shoebox, so any amount of mess made the place look chaotic.

"Nice place," James said and you immediately rolled your eyes, snatching up a stray bra strewn across an armchair. "No, I mean it! It's cozy. Very you." He gestured up at the colourful, mismatched glassware in a kitchen cabinet and the beaded curtain separating your bedroom. You blushed slightly; you didn't often take men home, your flat staying a girly paradise just for you.

You put on the kettle, comforted by the familiar sounds of water beginning to boil. James sat awkwardly on an armchair near the window, anxiously peeking out from behind the curtain every few minutes. His reactions told you the paparazzi were still loitering outside.

James took his tea gratefully, surprisingly still agreeable despite all the terrible things that had happened in the course of a few hours.

"Do you have a back exit or something? Somewhere I can slip out and get home?" You shook your head with a grimace.

"Only the fire exit, but that still goes out near the front. Otherwise we're surrounded by other buildings."

"You must be exhausted after everything. Head off to bed, I'll wait until the gits outside fuck off then lock the door behind me. We don't have to ever mention this again if you don't want." The orange lamp light made James' eyes look unfairly soft, highlighting the golden flecks amongst the brown. You steeled your nerve and shook your head.

"I'm not that bad of a host," You tried to joke, "Besides, don't you have training tomorrow? You're already up later than I'm sure you intended to be. I couldn't live with myself if I ruined England's star player by making him stay up all night, you take my bed and go to sleep." You were both very carefully trying to keep things light, not wanting to spend any more of the night miserable and fighting.

"Well, I'm not taking your bed, that's just impolite. I'll take the couch, if you're being so generous as to let me stay." He had a cheeky smile on his lips as he said it, both of you dancing around the fact that in any other circumstance James wouldn't have been allowed within fifteen feet of your flat.

"That couch? No way." You pointed at the teensy vintage sofa sitting in front of the boxy television. It had space for maybe two and a half arses to sit on it, maybe horizontally extended legs if you were short-ish, but there was no way the goliath James Potter was getting any decent sleep on it. "You take the bed. I'll survive the couch tonight."

"Don't be stupid, I can't sleep in your bed. If not the couch I'll take the floor."

"Speaking from a purely medical standpoint, I haven't cleaned these floors recently enough for it to be safe to have your face in such close proximity. Take the bed, Potter."

You bickered for a few long minutes, both of you trying to outdo each other's respect as host and guest, respectively. You didn't miss the irony that even when you and James were getting along you were fighting.

"I'm not letting you go without, that's final." You turned away to go fetch a pillow for your night on the couch when James said something you never ever thought you'd hear from him.

"Then sleep with me."

"Excuse me?" You all but shrieked, immediately cringing as you thought about your poor neighbours.

"Look, it's basically morning, we're both shattered and I'm sure your bed is much comfier than whatever alternative you're planning. We can even go full pillow-wall if it'll make you feel better." You stared at him for several moments, lips actually agape. Never in your life did you think James Potter would be asking you to share a bed with him, and never in your life did you think you'd be considering it.

"Fine."

Twenty minutes later and you were both ready for bed. You'd found James an old pair of an ex-boyfriend's long abandoned pyjamas, stuffed in a bottom drawer. They were slightly too small to accommodate all his muscles, the t-shirt sitting a few inches above the pants' waistband, giving him a very '90s crop top and exposing his happy trail.

You were almost definitely more embarrassed than James. You were in a similarly aged pair of pyjamas, a cartoon of Spongebob over your chest. You couldn't tell if you'd prefer to be in the lame pair that you were wearing or a cute pair -- no, it would probably look like you were trying too hard. Which you weren't. You didn't care about looking cute in front of James Potter, why would you?

He was already in bed when you'd returned from your skincare routine, face fresh and moisturised, and though you knew he was going to be there, nothing could have prepared you for the sight of James Potter in your bed. Tucked up to the chin under your frilly floral grandma sheets, he looked the picture of cozy.

"Don't bloody touch me, I mean it. I want to feel alone in my own bed," You snapped, sliding under the covers, pulling the doona similarly high up to your chin. You turned over to the centre of the bed to find James already on his side looking at you. You let it be for a moment, surprisingly enjoying the sleepover vibes you'd created.

"Okay this is weird now, the pillow's going up." You slammed a long decorative cushion in between the both of you, secretly smiling at the sleepy giggle James let out.

The first time you awoke it was hazy, still early in the morning with golden sunbeams streaming through your curtains. Warmth enveloped you, keeping you cozy despite the winter morning outside. You shifted to burrow deeper into your blankets when a groan came from behind you, startling you more awake as you recognised the feeling of muscular arms wrapped around your middle. It suddenly all came back to you, James walking you home, the paparazzi, you making an absolute fool of yourself. However, James was a portable heat source and extremely comfortable so you let yourself ignore everything that had led up to it, allowing yourself another few hours of blissful sleep.

The second time you woke up James was gone. That wasn't surprising given he definitely had early morning training, but you would reluctantly admit that it was a little lonelier in your bed than it usually was.

You didn't leave the house for the rest of the day, finally cleaning your apartment after much too long. Turns out all you needed was to be embarrassed in front of a guest to get you motivated.

Monday morning you weren't hungover anymore, but you were mourning the weekend that had passed much too quickly. Still, things were running smoothly enough; you didn't miss the tube and had snagged a seat, and your makeup was looking absolutely grand. You were absolutely thriving.

That was, until you crossed the threshold of the Sunday People offices and the jerks from the politics columns started bothering you, as if a Monday morning wasn't punishment enough.

"Meet anyone nice over the weekend, sweetheart?" One crowed from his desk chair, looking positively dickhead-ish in his too-small button-up.

"Or still on the clock maybe? We know you're always hunting for a good story." The combination of both remarks confused you, but you strutted past them with a quick glare in their general direction, your clicking heels producing enough attitude that you didn't need to say anything.

As you approached your own desk area, you had the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that everyone was looking at you. You couldn't think of why, but subtly wiped the edge of your lips in case it was foolishly smudged lipstick.

You even swore you heard one of the royal writers -- an awful woman maybe twenty years older than you -- say something about your 'promiscuity' and 'unprofessionalism'. You didn't know where it was coming from. You weren't friends by any means but you usually just stayed out of each other's way, you didn't throw around insults at your workplace. You glanced down at your outfit but nothing seemed especially revealing, the same button-up and pencil skirt you always wore if you weren't doing field work.

You were really starting to wonder why everyone was looking at you when even Lily was sending you pitiful glances. You had just made up your mind to say something about it when your boss came striding towards you, anger emanating in a way which only middle-aged men can do.

"What is this?" He slammed a Daily Mail tabloid down on your desk. The office was dead silent. You looked down at it, wholly confused as to what it could be -- your last article was approved without any troubles.

THE 'INSIDE' SCOOP? POTTER GETS COZY WITH REPORTER ON NIGHT OUT

And there, right under the brazen headline, was the stupid picture that Peter Pettigrew took. The two of you out on the street, you tucked into James' side with his arm around you. Your face wasn't totally visible, but anyone who already knew you would recognise the figure and fashion.

You could feel your face drop as you read the article, a barrage of slut-shamey insults and reports of how intimate you and James were out on the streets of London -- all entirely false, of course. When you'd finished reading the piece the whole office was staring at you, waiting to see how you'd react.

"It's a lie," You said quietly, trying to stop your hands from shaking as they rested on your lap. There was a pregnant pause as your boss processed what you were saying, clearly confused. None of your coworkers dared to speak.

"Bullshit," He replied, face blooming red as he decided you weren't being truthful. "That's you and that's James, there's no denying that. The whole bloody country will be able to see you two getting cozy on the street. How do you reckon this reflects on me, having your name and workplace published alongside your completely unprofessional affair?"

"I understand that it looks bad, but it's not what you think at all. J- uh, Potter was just helping me get home after a chance encounter because I wasn't feeling well, then he hid at my place because of all the paparazzi. Nothing happened." It was a weak explanation, even you could tell, even though it was completely true.

The arseholes over in Politics were already sniggering to themselves and you wished you could have ripped them a new one. Instead, you were cowering underneath your brutish boss.

"It's your word against Pettigrew's, and only one of you's been printed. You've been publicly humiliated and we're getting bad press for it."

Your boss had left you with the threatening promise that the issue would be brought up with your superiors and the whispered opinions of every single person you worked with. You choked out an excuse to get out of the office, taking the lift up to the rooftop to cry.

You had peace for a few minutes, getting the most embarrassing of the sobs out alone.

"Did you actually sleep with him?" If it was anyone else you probably would have snapped, yelling at them for being so insensitive. Marlene said it with such earnest curiosity and sympathy that you turned to face her instead. You were met with her and Lily, your very best friends who you were feeling especially lucky to work with at that moment.

"No!" You told them the full story, about getting sick at the club, James just being polite and walking you home, and Peter Pettigrew's terrible betrayal. Both women listened attentively, taking it all in.

"I thought you hated Potter," Lily said finally, "How'd it get that far in the first place? Usually you'd have ditched him in the first five minutes of being in his presence."

"I don't hate him." You studied your hands intently, observing the peeling red nail polish you should have reapplied yesterday. "I think he's annoying and obnoxious and I've always hated that he's never believed I could be a serious writer, but I don't hate him. He has his moments. Besides, why would I waste energy on hating Potter when I could hate Pettigrew with all my heart?"

"What a snake," Marlene spat, lighting a cigarette as she got comfy next to you. You and Lily both nodded. Peter was not only now a backstabber, but he'd been becoming increasingly insufferable over the years you'd all been writing.

He started out quite nice and was in your periphery of friends in the same way Remus and even James were, but as he'd gotten the job at his shitty tabloid magazine he'd become downright intolerable, always twisting what you'd said both in official articles and when gossiping with other friends. You had all had enough a few years ago and stopped inviting him places. Clearly, he'd held onto the grudge.

At his own work, James was facing the same rumours, though not nearly to the same peril. As he rocked up to his home pitch for the morning training session he was received with catcalls and high fives which made him nervous. No one was ever that happy to be working out on a Monday morning.

"Thought you hated her, mate."

"Maybe all she needed was a good shag to get the stick out of her arse."

"Woah! Can we take it back a few steps and not talk about women that way?" James sent a look over to one of his teammates.

"Sorry bud," He held his hands up in surrender, "Thought you wouldn't mind since you're always moaning about her." James' eyebrows knit together as he tried to piece together what the men were talking about, finally giving up and asking for a plain explanation.

He was met with a copy of Peter's article, outlining the flirty touches and 'electric chemistry' the two of you shared. Scanning it quickly James felt his face screwing up in disgust. Never mind that it obviously wasn't true, what a disgusting violation of privacy. He'd only recently launched into the spotlight, working his way up into the Premier League and then team captain in the last few years. He still didn't know how to handle the fame, especially invasive press like this.

His first priority was setting the ruth straight for his team, explaining exactly what happened and outlining strict instructions not to bring it up the next time they saw you.

"This is going to be a lot worse for her than me," He said, ending the conversation there.

He was correct. Rumours only spiralled from Peter's article. You'd stupidly created Google Alerts for your name; as a journalist, it made sense to keep track of where your writing was being shared. One day of this nonsense and you had all alerts silenced, not wanting to ever visit the internet ever again.

Apparently, this alleged affair was the most interesting thing young British people had ever experienced. The football star and the sports journalist. As you packed up to leave at the end of the day you were feeling sick to your stomach, already overwhelmed by the attention you never wanted on you.

Your face blanched as you approached the dizzying glass windows, a mass of reporters swarming the door. You didn't have to think hard to know they were waiting for you. You retreated to the restroom where they couldn't see you to rearrange your exit appearance. Pulling your coat tight against you and scarf up to cover the bottom half of your face, you plugged your iPod nano in to appear busy (and touched up your eye makeup for the inevitable photos that would make it back into the news cycle).

Physically and emotionally prepared you braved the crowd again, moving through with a polite but firm shove, making yourself a path down to the tube. You only snapped at one particularly rude paparazzi, giving him an instruction of where to 'stick it' as you hopped down the stairs to your station.

You ate a haphazard dinner by your computer, obsessively clicking through the various articles (and now personal blog posts) that had mentioned you. Every link made you feel worse about yourself.

The articles themselves were bad, most of them degrading you and congratulating James. Some had even produced old school photos of the both of you, even a few from your uni days when James was just starting out professionally and you were attending similar parties.

The articles were one thing, at least they usually had to be somewhat impartial. The blog posts by James' fangirls were downright cruel, calling you a slag based on a singular photograph and dragging your name through the mud.

You were drawn from your doom-scrolling by your cellphone ringing, Britney ringtone at least drawing a smile from you.

"Hello?"

"Get off the internet," Sirius Black said from the other end of the line.

"How'd you know?" You exited the webpage dutifully, already feeling the weight of the world's ugly words lifting from your shoulders.

"I figured. First time being written about isn't easy."

"It's certainly making me grateful I've never been so bitchy in my articles," You produced a hollow laugh, "I don't know how people can say these things about someone they've never met."

"That's why we like you," He said, "Mostly, at least. You stick to the sport and not our personal lives."

"Don't inflate my ego, Black, it's just because I don't like you guys," You joked, your mood already blooming back to somewhat more chipper.

"That's what I've been telling him!" You heard Remus call from further away, probably the other side of their living room. Sirius made an offended noise.

"Is Potter there?" You changed the topic, swirling your mouse around the window aimlessly, too afraid to check your work or personal notifications.

"He's out right now, calling someone official -- a publicist or lawyer friend. He's tearing his hair out about this, he feels awful for you." Both men explained, bickering about who exactly he was talking to.

"Yeah, I'm noticing only one of us is getting called a slut." You rolled your eyes even though they couldn't see you, balancing your cell between your shoulder and ear as you made a cup of tea. Sirius' barking laughter crackled through the speaker.

"Don't worry about it, love, everyone knows The Daily Mail is full of shite. Besides, I got that all the time."

"Yeah, in school! Not when you have a grown-up job to save face at!" Sirius conceded, apologising lightly. You shrugged him off; he was not the target of your anger at all.

"James'll be back soon, do you want to stay on the phone?" Remus asked and you answered without hesitation.

"No. I don't want to talk to him right now. We'll just find something to fight about, it's not worth it."

"He wants to make things better," Sirius offered, "He feels terrible."

"Maybe when I'm not so angry at the world." You left them with the offered compromise, hanging up to pity yourself for a few more hours before bed.

You didn't end up being fired over the incident, your bosses couldn't find a good reason to cite, but everyone in the office knew you were on thin ice. Most weren't afraid to highlight that fact. You were really starting to hate the Politics guys.

You just tried to keep your head down, diving into your articles and trying to keep in the higher-ups good graces. Amidst the drama though you'd been taken off all football coverage for the time being, banished to the irrelevant 'sports' you never even knew existed.

The week had taken you out of London to cover bizarre rural events like cheese rolling and bog snorkelling; not uninteresting but a big change of pace to the Premier League drama you were used to.

It did take your mind off of James and the media shitstorm for a day or two though. Being in a small town was much preferable to London, at least for the moment. The paparazzi weren't going to make the drive to find you for a single day when there were plenty more interesting figures to find in the city.

Plus, you were meeting the most interesting people. Though it was no Premier League final, everyone around was so wholly invested and excited by the competition that you couldn't help feeling the same, despite your initial hesitation.

Throughout the day it was just you, your notepad, your camera and the few thousand people who came to participate and observe. You'd already met and interviewed the woman who made the cheese, the previous year's winner and you were waiting impatiently to see who'd prevail now.

The paper was paying for you to stay overnight so you could chronicle the post-event celebrations, and you'd never been so glad to be working late. The key players in the day, organisers and competitors had all convened in the town's old pub, basically heaving under the weight of you all.

You held up your beer with the others despite hating the taste, grateful to be included in their toast to the day. You laughed as you tried to down it quickly, wanting the taste out of your mouth as soon as possible without refusing such a kind gift. Holding the pint up in the air victoriously you accepted the cheers of those around you, including the lovely middle-aged lady who made the ceremonial cheese and the man only a year or two older than you who'd won earlier.

"Finally letting your hair down!" He laughed and you smiled back, trying to remember his name. A glance down at your notepad said Drew. "Can I get you another?" You hoped he didn't notice your eyes widen, not expecting attention like that, not when you were allegedly working no less. You opened your mouth to agree when someone else answered for you.

"She doesn't like beer, thinks it tastes like piss." You whipped your neck around at the familiar voice, mouth dropping open at the sight of James Potter.

"What the hell are you doing here?" You asked, jovial politeness abandoned.

"You didn't remember that my family comes to watch every year?"

"Respectfully, why the fuck would I remember something like that?" You snapped, moving to leave and follow the much nicer Drew to the bar. James grabbed your hand lightly, stopping you from leaving.

"Wait, can we talk please?" You just looked at him for a long time, considering how much patience you had after a full day of work, then shrugged half-heartedly.

He led you outside and away from the crowd, both of you letting out a huff as you noticed the change in temperature.

"I liked your story on the bog snorkelling -- interesting stuff," James broke the awkward silence and you rolled your eyes aggressively.

"As if you read my pieces."

"I do!" He insisted, silently refusing the cigarette you offered. "I've read all your pieces, honest."

"But... huh? You're the one who always said I'd be a shit writer, I've spent years trying to get the negative internal James out of my head! You absolute dickhead!" You shoved his chest, turning back towards the door to return inside.

"Are you thick? I only said that because I fancied you!"

James' words rang heavy in the air, the street otherwise silent. You stared straight ahead of you for a moment, his words settling on top of you as you focused on the orange street lamp.

This whole time, this whole time, you'd been fighting the image you believed James had of you, striving to be better, never being satisfied, for nothing. This whole time you and James had been bickering and trading insults for nothing? And all his flirting... James' annoying charm and ironic compliments and innuendo-filled teasing were all genuine, after all this time? Suddenly your whole world had turned on its axis.

"What do you mean you said it because you fancied me? That is not normal!" You whirled around, accusatory finger pointed his way.

"I don't know! I thought I was supposed to! It wasn't cool to be a sap!" James argued back, running a hand through his already tousled curls.

"Jesus Christ," You muttered, "So what, you thought all my arguing back was just flirting?" James' silence told you all you needed to know.

"Come on, don't act like you didn't like it a little bit! As I recall you were always up for the fight, weren't you? You never avoided me or ignored me. Let's face it, you enjoyed it as much as I did." He stepped closer to you, breath visible in the cool air.

"I didn't enjoy it, what the hell are you talking about? Why would I enjoy trading schoolyard insults with some arrogant, idiotic football player who discredited the one thing I wanted most in my life?" Suddenly you were inches apart, heat emanating from both of you as you fought.

"Like you never said I was stupid for wanting to be a footballer? Face it, love, you're just as bad as me."

And suddenly, despite all your better judgement and every bit of sense in your head, you were kissing him. You didn't know exactly how it had happened, and if anyone were to ever ask you you would absolutely pin the blame on James but there you were, out in the middle of the street without a care in the world.

Every one of your senses was on fire, the smell of his cologne, the taste of his lips, the feeling of his soft curls under your fingers. Everything about James felt like he was made for you, like all the years of you revolving around each other, playing off the other's insult was just a lead-up, preparation for the very moment you kissed for the first time.

James' arms around you were warm, strong from years of working out and protective like a weighted blanket. One hand wrapped around your midsection and the other firmly on your neck you felt wholly surrounded by him, isolated in your own bubble of James.

It was probably a bad idea, but you weren't overly concerned with addressing that fact in any rush. It didn't come as you tilted your head to bring him even closer, it didn't come as you said hurried goodbyes in the pub and collected your coat, it didn't even come as you closed the door to your hotel room, undoing the buttons to James' shirt like they had a personal vendetta against you.

The admittance only came as you lay entangled with him, faces millimetres apart.

"Was that a bad idea?" You asked, genuine self-consciousness mixing with pragmatic anxiety.

"I mean, I quite enjoyed myself, love. Did you not?" James' cheeky smile made you snort out a giggle but you sobered up quickly, hitting him lightly on his toned chest.

"Don't turn this into a joke!" You ordered, "Have we just fucked everything up?" James just looked at you for a minute, taking in the sincerity in your voice and the depth of your eyes.

"Of course we haven't," He assured you. "Do you like me?"

"But--"

"Ah! Do you like me?" He reiterated and you paused, nodding shyly. "See? You like me and I like you. We'll figure everything else out. Start slow; baby steps."

"Baby steps," You agreed, sharing his smile. It really only hit you how much you actually liked James once you'd said it, finally noticing how he might've been looking at you the whole time.

You sent James off early in the morning, both of you needing to make it back to London quickly. You had to get your article written up and James had training. Thankfully there was no awkwardness in your goodbye; James had to rush to meet his parents to drive back by car and you had a train to catch. The only moment of hesitance came as you said goodbye, waving at each other with a giggle as James hopped down the steps. He hesitated halfway, turning to look at you with the glint of mischief in his eye that you'd become very well acquainted with.

In a moment he was at the top of the steps again, swooping in to steal another kiss. You rolled your eyes to hide an embarrassing smile, pushing him back in the direction he came.

"Haven't you got somewhere to be?" You asked, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. James mimed twisting a knife in his chest but continued down the stairs nonetheless, giving you one last smile before he turned a corner and disappeared from your sight. You sighed like a schoolgirl then laughed at yourself, packing the last of your things to get home.

As you sat on the train, green landscapes passed you through the window and you felt your cell phone buzz from the minuscule pocket of your work trousers.

thinking of u :P <3

You grinned, looking out at the scenery so the people around you wouldn't be able to figure out your embarrassing secret. You felt like a teenage girl again, blushing over a text from the guy you had a crush on.

Everything turned to shit in a matter of hours after returning to London.

First, James' publicist made his statement. It wasn't necessarily terrible, but it really had no regard for you. No statement declaring you both on good terms, no coming to your defence or asking for the press to respect you. James looked like the hero saving a stupid drunk girl, and you still looked desperate for the most popular footballer in the country. You were decently sure it wasn't James' fault, but it did significantly dampen your lovesick giddiness.

The office was half-empty when you arrived, kitten heels clicking against the ground. You said a quick hello to Lily, still dutifully typing away at her computer. You followed her lead, exporting your notes to your desktop computer, formatting the piece and going through edits to have it ready for the next paper.

The sun was setting, sending orange and pink streaks through the sky when the door to your boss' office slammed open, echoing above the cubicles.

"You kissed him?" He yelled and you paled, knowing exactly what he was talking about but not how he knew. That problem was solved when he slammed the magazine down in front of you, no doubt just delivered by the skittery young receptionist running back to the elevator.

FACT OR FICTION? POTTER AND REPORTER CAUGHT SNOGGING AMIDST PUBLIC DENIAL

Fuck. That could not be worse.

The whole piece was essentially dragging your name through the absolute mud now that they had the confirmation there was something going on between you and James. The whole world thought you were sleeping to the top, or for the best scoop, and everyone hated you for it.

You looked up at your boss, words dying on your tongue.

"Please tell me that's not you," He said, grasping at the thinning hair on his head. You couldn't deny it.

"I..." You trailed off, searching for anything you could say to make it better. "I didn't mean to. And I'm being completely honest when I say that the first article was all bullshit. Things have... happened since then." You were already on the verge of tears. Even on an optimistic day, you couldn't have denied that this was utterly shit.

"Jesus." Your boss muttered, beginning to pace. "Look, I like you, you know? You do good work and you're never outta line, but I reckon the higher-ups are gonna be done with you. They wanted you out over the first article but I convinced them it was all speculation. This is proof and makes us all look bad that you're sleeping with someone you interview every other bloody week. Look, I'll do what I can in damage control, but I'd be bringing your stuff home tonight. I'm sorry."

How could he have just left you with that absolute bombshell? Effectively firing you, just like that? The tears had made their way up to your waterline, sitting there mocking you as you refused to let them fall. You submitted your piece and shut off your laptop, angrily stuffing your sparse personal decorations into your shoulder bag to get the fuck out of the building as fast as possible.

The paparazzi were waiting again, of course, like that was what you really needed. You pushed past them, making sure to land an extra hard stomp on Peter's foot, lips twitching into the beginnings of a smile as you heard him curse.

You sat on the tube, staring intently at your feet and trying desperately to think of anything but your current situation. You'd already been approached by someone who'd coughed out "Skank," which really hadn't done anything for your sour mood. All you wanted was to crawl into your bed and never emerge.

You wandered down the street between the metro station and your flat, hands shoved deep in your coat pockets.

"Hey!" Someone called and you glanced over on instinct, senses drawn by the interruption of an otherwise quiet evening. "You're the girl who kissed James Potter, yeah?" It was a girl still in her school uniform, probably sixteen or seventeen. You thought through your options quickly and shrugged.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Wicked. How was it?" She asked, chewing on pink gum. There was an aura about her that you liked, not judgemental like everyone else you'd met. If you were still in school you thought you might've been friends with her.

"Pretty good, I'd do it again." A cheeky almost-joke between the two of you, ironic given the shit that it had caused for you.

"We were talking about it at school. Pretty shit how they've treated you. Like they all wouldn't jump at a chance to get close to 'im." You liked the way that she didn't get any closer. Just the two of you standing face to face, divided by the empty road.

"Exactly what I've been saying," You agreed, tucking your hair behind your ears.

"If it was the other way around, if you were the famous one, James would be getting congratulated for getting with you, not ridiculed by the mindless gossip columns. All my friends think it's utter bullshit, stopped buyin' 'em and everything." You could have kissed her if that wasn't tremendously creepy. In five minutes, this schoolgirl had vindicated everything you'd been saying for the past week in a way no one else had.

"Thank you," You said, with more sincerity than you probably should have had for a complete stranger. The girl just shrugged with a smile, nodding before continuing down the street, the sound of her leather school shoes growing quieter with every step.

You felt it in your whole body every time you thought of the interaction for the next few hours, warmth spreading through your chest as you were reminded there were still good people around.

Your other reminder of that fact came with the sound of your buzzer, the laughing of Lily and Marlene echoing off the stone of your building. As you let them in curiously they presented armfuls of takeout, the smell of Chinese food immediately floating through your flat.

Lily took the responsibility of setting out the food while Marlene took control of your little television, flipping between channels until she found a suitable romcom starting.

You didn't speak about what had happened, no one mentioned James Potter or the bloody Sunday People. Yet, there was an air of tenderness that let you know the girls knew exactly what was happening and how you were feeling about it.

Still, there was something bothering you. You couldn't give it a name immediately, only a tugging in your stomach while the girls were entertaining you, but persistent nonetheless.

It wasn't until you were all crammed into your bed, the other two peacefully asleep, that you could identify the sensation. It was an overwhelming desire, a need to write that you hadn't felt in ages. It was the same feeling that had pushed you to be a journalist in the first place, an inspiration you typically only felt watching a magical soccer final.

You crept out of your bedroom, switching on your computer at the kitchen table, squinting at the aggressive blue light. And when a blank Word document appeared before you, you started writing. Obsessively, feverishly, words poured out of you at a rate that hadn't happened since you'd started at Sunday People.

The words of the school girl fresh in your mind, you started an article vastly different from your usual kind. Instead of strategies and highlights you dissected your own experience of the past week, saying everything you hadn't let yourself unload to the paparazzi outside your office (though with fewer curse words than they would have received). It could have been minutes or hours that you were writing and you wouldn't have noticed, eyes glued on the screen in front of you.

You didn't realise you'd fallen asleep until Lily woke you gently with a hand on your shoulder, offering a steaming mug of tea. It was light outside, the world already up and awake. You were glad it was a weekend as the girls didn't need to rush off to work, cooking a simple breakfast for you all to share.

"What've you written?" Marlene asked, the second part of her sentence unnecessary: since you don't have a job to write for. You shrugged, taking a bite of some eggs.

"Just something I had to get off my chest. Might see if I can sell it to someone to tide me over 'til I figure out what I'm doing with my life."

"Can we read?" You made a 'go ahead' gesture, the computer already open to the screen.

A WOMAN'S UNWILLING WEEK IN THE PUBLIC EYE:

How a woman always loses.

You sat in mild discomfort as Lily and Marlene read your piece in silence, anxiously awaiting their reactions. They weren't what you were expecting.

When they turned back to face you, Lily had tears in her eyes, red tones brought out in her skin. Even Marlene looked uncharacteristically moved, not at all the reaction you were expecting. Firstly, it was completely unedited so you suspected it was somewhat of a mess from your midnight haze. Secondly, it was more of a vent than anything, getting your hatred for invasive paparazzi off your chest. You thought you'd all laugh about it then move on with your days.

"Lils, what's wrong?" You didn't mean to laugh, it was more out of surprise than anything else.

"It's just, it's so raw and real. It's so unfair," She sniffled, wiping her eyes with the sleeves of her sweater.

"Jesus, you don't have to cry," You said lightly, "I'm fine! I hated that bloody place anyway."

"That's not the point," Marlene pointed out, "And Lily's right, this is really confronting stuff. It's great."

"Thanks," You mumbled, studying a lamp for something to do.

"Can we talk about James?" Your head snapped back to look at her.

"What about him?"

"Clearly there's been some... developments in your relationship, which we don't have to talk about--"

"Yet," Marlene interrupted.

"The point is that it looks like there's feelings involved now. What are you doing about them? Because if you publish that, it's putting everything out there, and even I can't tell how you feel about James right now," Lily finished.

"I don't want to talk to him," You said quickly, "I know it's not his fault but I can't think about him without getting mad. It's like I wrote; he ends up fine while I lose my job over one kiss."

"Understandable," Marlene nodded, "But if I know James at all, he'll be going crazy every minute that you ignore him."

You had much to consider when the girls left. The state of your career, your feelings for James, everything felt too big and overwhelming to make any decisions about. So, you took a nap.

The rest of your weekend was spent sending your then-edited article to as many newspapers and blogs as you could and hiding out in your flat, dodging James' calls.

Unfortunately, you liked him. You'd figured out that much. More unfortunately, he hadn't done anything to help you out in all this mess, benefiting from the press in a way that only England's favourite footballer could.

On Monday morning your piece was published. Not the biggest or most reputable newspaper, if your name hadn't still been trending it probably would have gone largely noticed. Instead, it blew up.

It had mixed reviews, of course, a tell-all so blatantly feminist would always attract its haters, but you were floored by the support it was receiving. Women were validating your experiences in a way you hadn't expected even a few days ago. It made you not so scared to leave the house anymore.

On Tuesday morning, Remus called you. You had the thought that it might have been James calling to grovel on Remus' phone, but you thought it was a smart enough idea you'd indulge anyway. If it was Sirius you wouldn't have picked up.

Instead, it was actually Remus.

"Come to the media room this afternoon," He said, evidently not wasting time with pleasantries.

"What?" You asked, caught off-guard.

"Just do it. Two o'clock."

"Remus, you know I don't have a job anymore, right?"

"Come off it, you know anyone on the team would let you in. You've got quite a name for yourself," He chanced a joke and you rolled your eyes.

"What, whore?" You retorted, only a little worried it would be true.

"I'm hanging up," Was all he said before the line went dead. You huffed, snapping your phone closed with all the attitude of a spoiled private schoolgirl.

Yet, at two o'clock you were standing in front of the media room at James' team's stadium, questioning all of your life choices.

The room seemingly went silent when you entered, dozens of pairs of eyes staring you down as you nervously stuck to the wall. You felt the derogatory, leering stares from all the sleazy men who'd been accusing you of sleeping with players since you first started in the field. It made you want to drop dead.

James made his way to the lectern up the front of the room with a cough, quieting down the chaos.

"Afternoon, everyone. I'm sure you're all wondering why I've called you here, I've got some things I'd like to address.

"As you all well know, I've been a frequent face in the papers lately, and not for my brilliant playing as it usually is. I recently got followed down a street after a night out looking after an old friend who happened to be a colleague of yours. Now I know that my godly good looks lead you to believe that I don't feel the same as all of you, but I do. And I'd like you all to consider how you'd feel if a man with a camera followed you all the way home after you'd been out for a night with your friends and a few cheeky drinks. It's pretty invasive if you can't imagine.

"Now, all this press hasn't really affected me. However, my dear friend has been subject to misogynistic articles, slut-shaming and harassment all because we were seen out together and a few hateful words from someone I used to consider a mate." You had no idea where this was going, but you were absolutely fascinated. James was more well-spoken, more mature and solemn than you'd ever seen him, though he still had his audience in the palm of his hand with his casual jokes. It was a masterclass in public speaking.

"If you haven't read any of my friend's pieces I would highly recommend them; she's got a brilliant voice and I personally read everything she publishes. However, I'm not here to talk about her work; I'd actually like to talk about her if you all don't mind."

What the hell was happening?

"In the midst of all these articles over the last week, I know you've all seen various pictures of us, including from secondary school. A few come to my mind, our graduation picture is a highlight, but I'd really like to talk about this one." James brandished a printed-out photo you recognised instantly.

"This photo was taken when we were twelve or thirteen years old at someone's party. That night, as you tend to do when you're young and bored, we played spin the bottle and ended up being each other's first kiss. I'm sure you're all wondering why I'm telling this story now, and it's because ever since that night as I have recently realised, almost a decade later, I have been embarrassingly, stupidly in love with her."

Your life wasn't real, it absolutely could not be.

"And though I've done some incredibly dumb things over the years, somehow she's managed to like me back -- at least a little. So I'm setting the record straight right now, she is not 'sleeping to the top' or trying to get a secret scoop out of me because I'm the one who's been chasing after her for twelve years.

"I know I've been rambling on for far too long so I'll wrap it up here, but I just wanted to end this little conference with a warning that if I see any more disgusting, hateful articles about her, you won't be getting another comment from me again. So nice to see you all!"

The room started to trickle out but you were stuck to your spot against the wall, frozen in absolute shock. You hardly even noticed the dirty looks you got from some of the people you'd been working alongside for years.

You spotted James in another corner, drinking out of a plastic water bottle and messing with his hair. A nervous tell.

The room was almost completely empty when you approached him, heels muffled by the carpeted floor.

"Hey stranger," You said softly, feeling way out of your depth. He turned in an instant, smile lighting up his face then melting away as it was replaced with an insecure frown.

"Was that okay? I didn't want to embarrass you but I wanted to step up and do something and protect you and--"

"Have you really loved me since we were twelve?" You cut him off bluntly.

"Every day since, as I've figured out," He agreed with a slight nod, glasses slipping down his nose slightly.

"What about all the flirting with Lily? The other girls over the years?"

"So obviously fake. Distractions. It's never been anyone but you, love."

You could only stare at him for a moment, your whole world shifting beneath your feet. James' face became increasingly worried, brow furrowing more the longer you remained unresponsive.

"If you don't feel the same that's totally alright, I still stand by what I did and I don't want you being harassed for--"

You'd always thought that cutting someone off with a kiss was ridiculously cheesy, reserved for shitty Hallmark movies with grown-up child actors who never got their big break. Turns out though, when you realise that your girlish crush on the star footballer has actually been a complicated love of twelve years, you don't really want to waste any more time.

When you woke up on Wednesday morning with James next to you, body heat keeping you cozy, you were convinced you had to be dreaming. When you eventually got up to check your emails and start your day the hypothesis was only solidified by the impossible email waiting in your inbox.

The fucking BBC wanted to hire you as a football commentator and sports writer. Your dream job at your dream company. If you let out an embarrassing squeal then that was none of your business.

You were still convinced you were hallucinating the whole thing until James came in with his biggest smile and that look in his eyes that told you he probably had a hand in getting your name on the BBC desks.

Even a few weeks ago you would have been mad at him, assuming it was mocking or he had ulterior motives. But it wasn't a few weeks ago anymore, and James Potter's whole, endless heart belonged to you. You weren't letting that go anytime soon.

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shoyoist · 2 years ago

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── 𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍'𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 : monkey d. luffy.

content: fem!reader. unprotected sεx, praise, implied virgin! luffy, inexperienced! reader, possessive behavior, a little manipulation at the beginning (reader to luffy). lots of cum. overstimulation. a mention of being used. confession at the end. note: my first one piece work! kinda nervous honestly v_v

— . ｡˚ ♡ you're hellbent on making the straw hats' captain yours.

thinking about how easy it is to just cry and sweet-talk your way into sitting on luffy's dick <3

he's already crushing on you to begin with. head over heels, almost. the moment he allowed you onto his ship, welcoming you into the crew so easily and ordering everyone to make you feel right at home — it had made his feelings obvious enough.

luffy has space for only two thoughts in that cute little head of his, and it just makes things easier for you to know that one of them is consisted of you. the other being to become the king of pirates, of course.

“how does it feel to be the captain's favourite?" zoro often remarks all sarcastic, and when you simply laugh and wave his comment away, luffy laughs right along with you. he's absolutely clueless.

to luffy, you look so innocent, and you've been so nice to him — you're just so sweet! helping him around, humouring all his jokes and stupid ideas, explaining things to him over and over with such patience when he just doesn't get it. and you even call him captain! you're just so lovely, and so pretty to look at on top of it<3

he trusts you so easily when you give him a pout, letting the tears glitter at your lashline as you ask him, “captain luffy, please?” you tell him you've never been touched like this before, that you need it, you need it so desperately — and you need it from him — to have his hands on you and to feel all full on him.

he agrees so easily, it's adorable. he's so giggly and giddy as he sits you on his lap up in his room at some nameless inn at the next island you stopped at. you'd fallen onto the rickety little couch backed up against the wall, too needy for eachother and too full of excitement to even make it to the bed.

he's so cute as he grits his teeth and groans, fingers digging into your hips as he slows the way you sink into his cock— unable to handle the way your warm, velvet walls wrap around him so well.

and once you're on his dick, it's even easier to get him addicted to having you on it.

“w—wait, wait wait wait—” his jaw hangs slack, allowing all his little gasps and whines and every little curse and word of praise that forms at his throat to freely pour out into your skin where he's latched his mouth onto.

he tries to kiss you, but he just can't focus on one thing enough when you feel so good around him, your thighs straddling his hips so well, your hands holding onto his shoulders so hard as you move up and down— so warm, so wet and so lovely, and suddenly not enough.

he needs more. he wants you to go faster. “more,” he whines, so good at telling you exactly what he wants. he's quite sure by now that you've done this before—and if you haven't, then you're damn good at it despite this being your first time— so he's unabashed. “more, faster. wanna cum.”

“mhm,” you sigh, giving him a heart-eyed look as you wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him sweetly and hugging him to you, giggling into the crook of his neck. “anything for my—ngh—my darling captain.”

at this point, he's in love with you.

he wraps his arms around you then, sliding his body lower in his seat, into a more comfortable position where he can set the pace himself. “careful,” he warns between clenched teeth when your hand slips from his shoulders.

letting you adjust, he grabs your waist, holding you tight in place — gives you a little “hang on, princess.” before he starts fucking up into you his own way.

it's slow at first, but you can feel the way the slap of his thighs against your ass gets harder with each thrust, how the slow, deep strokes get faster and shallower with each hit—and then he's got the tables turned on you, forcing you to grab at his nape, his hair, his arms, anything to retain your balance while he hits it as hard and deep as he likes.

“ah—ah, luffy!”

“captain luffy, princess.” he groans, voice barely there, grabbing your ass and giving it a squeeze, loving how pliable you are in his hands. his pace stutters every now and then, dick slipping out to smack at your clit before he's putting it back in with a groan.

and oh, you know he's likely never done this before, but god he's making you feel so good. he's so desperate, shamelessly using you like a toy to fuck into, eyes hazy and body tensing up with each thrust. “aaah, fuck, so good … so good, so goodsogoodsogood—”

and just like that, with one last thrust into you that goes in balls deep and throws stars into your eyes, he cums into you. he cums so hard.

hot, thick ropes of milky white fill you up and drool out of you, dripping onto luffy's thighs and staining the seat below, his cute little ah—ahh!’s of uncontrollable bliss drowning out the wet sounds your body makes as his cock gets milked all up by your messy cunt.

it's enough to make you cum along with him, your walls squeezing him so impossibly tight, fluttering warm and wet around his sensitive tip as he ruts into you, so sloppy now yet still insatiable.

he has all the stamina you knew he'd have and more, fucking you through your orgasm just the way you like. just the way you wanted him to.

sitting on luffy's dick is a task easy enough to do, but getting off proves to be difficult.

“fuuuuck,” he sighs, voice going just a bit pitchier than usual as he sinks into the seat, taking your hips in his hands and nudging you back and forth on his cock, using you to carry himself through his high. the way his base drags at your clit is electrifying, and you can't help but throw your head back and moan.

the post-orgasm high is delicious.

“hah, y’like that? mhm?” he smiles up at you, giddy and dazed. “felt so good, princess. you never done this before, huh?”

“mmm,” you mumble, slumping into him and feeling the way he drinks up your scent, not really confirming or denying his statement.

“hah,” he laughs, tightening his arms around you. “can only do it with me from now on though, mkay? you okay with that?”

after that fucking? hell yes. you're so happy, so full, so warm and so content right now, with his arms around you, his lips on your skin and his dick still throbbing inside you.

you'd known luffy would be good. it's why you'd worked your way to this moment in the first place — but you didn't think he'd be this fucking good.

he'd been a little shy and unsure of himself at first, but god, when he'd finally gotten the hang of it, when he'd finally snapped, he'd fucked you so good.

”heyy,” luffy taps your head gently. “you alright? can you hear me, hm?”

“mhm.” you respond, turning your head to rest your cheek on his shoulder, giving the lobe of his ear a little nibble and making him laugh. “i can hear you, captain.”

“asked you somethin'.” he kisses the side of your head and presses a palm to your back, rubbing the expanse of skin gently for you. oh, he's so in love. “only me, mkay?”

“mkay.” you agree, a giggle slipping from you when he gives you a dopey grin and wraps his arms tighter around you, pulling you right against his warm, sticky body and going right to sleep with you in his lap. the couch is old and creaky — but luffy makes a comfortable bed, you think. you can take it, for a night at least.

because after this, you think you might be in love with him, too. and either way, you definitely don't want to get off his dick just yet.

#₊˚ପ⊹ REKHA™.#₊˚ପ⊹ NYCHTA.#one piece smut #one piece x reader #luffy smut #luffy x reader #monkey d. luffy x reader #monkey d. luffy smut #op smut #op x reader #luffy x y/n #luffy x reader smut #luffy headcanons #smut headcanons #luffy scenarios #one piece scenario #one piece imagine #luffy imagine #luffy x you

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cressidagrey · 8 days ago

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Holy Ground - Prologue

Summary:

Nobody knew that Azriel found his mate. Until she nearly died. This is the aftermath.

Warning:

Rhys Bashing (as usual), Inner Circle Bashing (kinda), Referenced/Implied Sexual Assault, Referenced/Implied Domestic Violence, Discussion of Religion(?)

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

Azriel had always liked Starfall.

Even he could enjoy one night a year where they danced and were merry…where they pretended that everything was just fine.

Just that this year…he couldn’t quite manage it.

Feyre had invited Lucien.

A year after that catastrophic Winter Solstice.

And for the very first time, Elain…Elain seemed not just willing but genuinely happy to converse with her mate.

*Keep away from her,* Rhys had repeated his order that morning, making it very clear what he wanted his spymaster to do. And Azriel…well, he had acquiesced.

Of course, he did.

Nobody had even noticed when he had slipped away…Nobody had wanted to notice. Why should they? They were all content...they were all happy.

Mor's mating bond with Emerie had snapped just weeks before and that had...everybody was so very pleased for her.

*You are not going to ruin this for Mor,* Rhys had snapped into his mind. *She has been through enough.*

Azriel wasn't going to ruin it.

So he pretended that everything was normal. And then he disappeared silently, and launched himself off the balcony and went flying. He didn't need to think when he did that. Even the shadows kept silent.

The night sky was a velvety black, speckled with countless glittering stars.

Azriel loved to fly, loved the rush of the wind buffeting his body, the exhilarating feeling of power and freedom. He soared high into the sky, basking in the cool breeze on his face.

At least he had this .

As a child it was all he had wanted. And now...now it was...now it was seemingly the one thing that gave him something close to peace. The last few green sparkling streaks on the sky...Skyfall was nearly over, once again.

He basked in it for a little while. Until he felt the scratch of Rhys' mental claws against his walls.

*Azriel,* Rhys' voice was harsh, sharp, demanding. *Where are you?*

* Out. * Azriel answered simply. * Flying. *

*Come back,* Rhys ordered with a sigh. *Look, I get it. You are angry at me.*

Azriel didn't even bother answering to that, swooping lower and then pushing higher again, revelling in the cold night air.

*Elain and Lucien are figuring things out,* Rhys continued.

* Good for them, * Azriel replied, his tone still bland. * Is there anything else? *

Rhys let out an exasperated breath.

*Azriel...I am sorry,* his brother apologised. *Be angry at me all you like. This would have only ended in heartbreak for you anyway.*

*That should have been my decision to make,* Azriel's voice was cold, curt, brooking no argument.

Rhys sighed. *Not if the political ramifications could have upset an already strained peace,* Rhys snapped. *Be reasonable, Azriel.*

* Are you done? * he asked Rhys drily.

*Azriel... * Rhys' voice was exasperated. *Fine. Be angry with me, if it makes you feel better,* his brother snorted. *If you want to throw a tantrum like a child, be my guest.*

Azriel gritted his teeth. This was not a tantrum. *Great. Thanks.* he shot back at Rhys nonetheless.

*Elain is happy, Azriel,* Rhys said softly. *And you should be happy for her.*

* Fine, * he said, voice toneless. * I am happy for her. What else do you want from me, Rhys? *

*For you to stop sulking,* Rhys replied. *And to come back to the Party.*

*No,* Azriel said simply, making another loop in the sky, feeling the wind rushing past him.

*Azriel,* Rhys growled, his temper shortening. I mean it.

*I think I'll go to that pleasure hall near the harbour instead,* Azriel said, his voice cold. * After all, if I want to fuck somebody, I should go to a pleasure hall and pay for it, right? *

*Azriel!* his brother snapped, clearly irritated. *That is enough.*

* What? I am just following your orders, High Lord, * Azriel gave back icily.

*You sound like a petulant child.* Rhys snapped.

* Go back to your party, * Azriel said drily. * I'll be just fine. *

Rhys let out a huffing breath. *Fine. Go and pout some more.*

Azriel ignored his brother, closing the connection and feeling his walls snap back into place.He would pout some more. Thank you very much.

Azriel flew higher, ignoring the party, ignoring everything. He pushed his wings faster, harder, revelling in the wind, in the silence, in the stars above him.

The only sound he could hear was his heartbeat, pulsing in his ears, matching the beating of his wings as he flew. He flew and flew and flew, until his muscles ached, until his wings felt heavy.

It was nice. He liked it. He loved it, in fact.

There was a reason he loved flying so much. It was freedom, it was a rush, but most of all it was quiet.

He did go back to the House of Wind…even when he had no plans to go back to that party. He would go to his room and pout some more. Maybe write some more reports.

Do whatever the High Lord expected the Spymaster to do.

He landed one one of the many, many balconies, recognising the Priestesses’ herb garden with a start.

"Spymaster."

Azriel froze for a heartbeat, closing his eyes, cursing mentally. He had wanted to come back unnoticed, to slip in silently. But apparently he wasn’t the lucky.

One of the Priestesses was sitting on the balcony’s ledge. He wasn’t scared that she was going to jup, simply because the balconies were spelled to prevent exactly that.

Sitting there, wrapped in a thick knitted blanket, with dark brown hair reached her waist was Irena.

Clotho’s right hand. The one in charge of seemingly all the paperwork that involved the library. All the bureaucracy went over Irena’s desk, all the accounts and acquisitions…

She was the daughter of one merchant of the midlands, married off to another richer merchant as soon as she had been barely old enough.

Azriel had met her for the first time two centuries ago. There had been a string of disappearances of young girls in the surrounding areas and his shadows had very quickly found the culprit.

Azriel had killed her husband…before he could kill Irena. Her husband had had a taste for violence…his young, beautiful wife had been one of his long-suffering victims.

Azriel had brought her to the library. He hadn’t really thought that she would bloom here as she had…hadn’t thought that a girl raised with a silver spoon in her mouth would be content with in the library. But she was.

And Irena turned out to be one of those scarily efficient people that could do the job of three people. In two hundred years, she had actually managed to make the House of Wind cost Rhys nearly nothing in upkeep anymore. Thanks to the gardens of the priestesses that kept them in fruits and vegetables and herbs…some of them sold to the vendors in Velaris, some turned into creams and potions in the stillroom, that were also sold…the library was just one thing the priestesses did. Some preferred the stillroom or the gardens or even needle work, knitted sweaters that were handed out to the needy in Velaris.

She had done that. Had bloomed and flourished here.

"Irena," he finally brought out, his voice hoarse.

She turned to face him for the first time. She had just grown more beautiful over the years…with long dark hair and dark doe eyes sat in a delicate face.

But all of that didn’t matter anymore. The moment their eyes met...suddenly everything changed.

His priorities were rearranged. All he cared about anymore was her. Was the priestess wrapped in her wool blanket sitting on that balcony ledge…

Irena.

She was his mate .

" Oh ," she breathed, her brown doe eyes widening near comically large.

Azriel just stared at her, feeling as though even the world had stopped breathing.

His mate .

His mate was sitting in front of him.

Irena .

Irena was his mate.

"Azriel," she whispered, her voice was soft, barely more than a whisper.

They just stared at each other for a long, long time. He stepped closer to her, wanting to touch her, wanting to feel her soft skin beneath his fingers, her soft lips against his. He wanted to pull her close...he wanted...

But Azriel didn't reach out. he didn't want to scare her. Didn't want to corner her. So he simply leant next to the railing a little bit away from her, still staring at her. "I..." he stuttered, trying to come up with he perfect sentence to tell his mate.

"I...I didn't expect that," Irena whispered.

"Me neither," Azriel said quietly, still slightly breathless, the information slowly sinking in.

"But it's not... unwelcome ?" Irena offered next.

"Absolutely not," Azriel said immediately. "I mean..." he said. She looked so small, sitting there on the ledge, wrapped into her blanket. One delicate shoulder poked out of it, only covered by white, near translucent cotton. She must only be wearing her nightdress, he realised suddenly.

She looked…so young right at that moment.

"Are you okay?" he asked her quietly, still staring at her, a soft, tender feeling spreading through him.

His . She was his .

Irena closed her eyes with a heavy breath, before nodding hesitantly. "I just....this was..." she said slowly, not daring to look at him. "It was unexpected."

"For both of us," Azriel said quietly, trying to read her expression. Was it...was she happy? Was she upset ?

She nodded, and then bit her lip. "I..." she started and his eyes lingered at that small, plump lip of hers, wishing that he would be the one biting it.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly and he instantly snapped his eyes back up to her face. "Sorry?" he echoed, frowning, because...what was she apologizing for?

"I mean," she continued, her dark brows knitting together as she bit her lip. Oh dear god, Azriel had never wanted to be a lip so much in his life. "I... I don't think I'm what you were expecting ."

Azriel took a breath, ready to assure her that he was positively delighted at the prospect of her being his mate but the words didn't quite leave his lips because...

"Are you dissappointed?" he managed, his hands clenching around the railing. He was scared what her answer would be.

She finally looked at him. Looked into his eyes and Azriel felt the world slow down for a moment, felt his throat tighten as she searched his expression, searching for something.

Whatever she was searching for, she seemed to find it though because she let out a sigh of relief, her lips quirking into a small, self-depreciating smile. "No," she said honestly. Azriel's breath caught at the Genuity on her face. "No, I'm not. But I...I don't know what...if I can ever give you..." Irena said weakly.

He shook his head. "We have time," Azriel promised her fiercely. All the time. They could figure this out at their own pace.

"Time," Irena echoed softly, looking towards the vast, twinkling night sky, the stars reflected in her eyes.

She looked back at him for a moment, and he could see an almost helpless expression in her eyes.

"I...I don't want to disappoint you,” she said quietly.

"You couldn’t," Azriel whispered, still staring at her, at the beautiful face of his mate. "Believe me, you never could disappoint me."

She gave him the tiniest smile. She didn't believe him, he knew that. Regardless of how ridiculous it was. She deserved more than him. More than scarred and battered and broken warrior.

"I will never...I will never force you," he promised her softly. "I will never..."

She nodded, but Azriel still saw something like relief flash over her face.

It broke his heart. "You are a good male," she whispered.

"No. I am not," Azriel immediately disagreed, because he knew he wasn't. He couldn't even begin to name all the things he had done, all the horrors he had committed.

He had killed her husband. That was just one of the things on his long, long list. “You deserve better than me,” he said weakly.

"You are my mate," Irena murmured softly. "There is nothing better."

"I...have...killed people," he protested. Killed her husband too. though he did think that that male deserved it.

"You did," she agreed. "You are a warrior. A protector. You were the one that saved me" she said quietly.

Irena took a deep breath, and then, slowly, reached out, touching his scarred fingers, running small, delicate fingertips over the back of his hands, and Azriel froze, completely still, hardly able to breath as she slowly traced the scars on his skin.

Her touch was light, but searing, making his skin tingle.

He slowly turned his hand, catching her fingers between his, squeezing gently as he intertwined their hands.

"I will never force you. I will never lay a finger on you. Whatever we do in the future, is your decision," he swore.

She stared up at him, the stars reflected in her eyes, her cheeks a faint pink.

Beautiful . Azriel thought, mesmerized and completely enraptured.

"I believe you," she whispered and Azriel's breath caught.

From her...that had been hurt so much...to hear that...it was...

"I will protect you," Azriel promised fiercely and her breath hitched as he lifted her hand, carefully, gently pressing his lips to the tips of her fingers. "I will protect you with my life."

She smiled at him then, a real smile, and Azriel felt as though his heart might stop. He had thought her beautiful before, but now, with her face illuminated in all its delicate beauty by the starry night sky...she was breathtaking .

"I...I will need some time to adjust," Irena said softly. Azriel just nodded dumbly, still a little star struck by her smile. "I...I haven't..." Irena said and she turned her head, looking out into the night sky, her hand still in his.

She hesitated, clearly struggling for words, and Azriel felt his heart seize up in his chest. Had he overwhelmed her? Had he pressured her?

"I haven't been with anyone in a long time." she admitted quietly. Irena didn't look at him, but Azriel was still looking at her, taking in her soft, almost angelic features, the slight blush on her cheeks.

He swallowed."I understand," Azriel whispered, and he did. He understood her hesitation, her uncertainty. And he would be patient...he would wait for as long as she needed.

"But...if you wanted to...you know where to find me," she said softly.

Azriel felt as though he was dreaming. He had found his mate, his beautiful, incredible mate, and she had welcomed him, wanted him even, and

Breathe . He told himself as he tried to calm the hammering of his heart. Breathe .

And slowly, carefully, he nodded, his fingers still interlaced with hers. "I will come to you," he said, his voice husky. "Whenever you want me too."

She was...a gift. A gift he didn't deserve but would treasure always.

Slowly...and so, so very carefully, Azriel stepped closer to her, still holding her hand, before lowering himself slowly down to sit next to her on the ledge. And this close he could sense just how much smaller she was than him, could feel the heat radiating from her body, smell her scent.

Poppies and something sweet and warm like…apple blossoms maybe?

Azriel wanted...gods, he wanted to kiss her.

But he didn't. He just held her hand, trying to memorize every small detail of hers. The curve of her cheek, the soft blush on her skin, her nose, the full lips.... The tiny flecks of gold in her eyes that reflected the stars above them.

She was breathtakingly beautiful

For a moment Azriel forgot where there were, forgot the cold air around them. For a moment there were only the two of them on this ledge, beneath the stars and a soft night sky. And it was...he felt peaceful .

It wasn't a feeling he had a lot. But here, on the ledge, his hand in hers, he felt at peace. And when Irena slowly rested her head on his shoulder, Azriel could feel nothing but utter contentment.

His heart swelled with affection for her, and he carefully rested his cheek against her head, taking a deep breath.

This was real. She was his mate.

She was truly, truly his.

His .

And nobody knew. Nobody had a clue. He could keep her all to himself.

And selfishly...that felt really good.

Nobody was going to have an opinion about them. Nobody needed to know now.

He wanted to keep her a secret. Gods, he wanted to.

She let out a soft, content sigh, her head still resting on his shoulder, and Azriel smiled to himself.

Notes:

If you liked this fic, then kudos, comments or constructive criticism are greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading!

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel x oc #azriel fanfic #azriel fanfiction #Holy Ground

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euphemiaamillais · 10 months ago

Text

money, power, glory - coriolanus snow

on the night of your victory party, president snow decides that he wants a little more than a kiss from his victor—after all, don’t you ought to show your president just how patriotic you are?

cw: 18+//dub-con//age gap (reader is 18+)//abuse of power//mentions of exploitation//objectification//blowjobs//piv sex//coercion//loss of virginity//creampie//district 7 victor!reader and president!coryo

the party is all for you; the gaud and festivity, the fountains of alcohol, the ridiculously clad guests. you won, they tell you—but it’s a reminder of the children you killed as you fought tooth and claw in that arena. it feels wrong, to be put on display like this when twenty-three children lay dead in their districts. the celebration of murder—it’s as if you’re the prize animal at the circus.

you had been primped and preened by your stylist drusilla all afternoon, gritting your teeth as every part of your body was plucked and waxed, as she pulled your hair back into some elaborate hairstyle, the pins now digging into your scalp. that pain—the dull ache of it—ironically served as a reminder of the pain you had to endure in the games. you only survived because you slit the throat of that boy from two, watching the blood trickle out of his neck as you practically limped away.

you’d since been repaired, though many a time you felt that familiar ache in your ankle—the one that had been broken—and supposed it was punishment for the cruelty of your actions. but put twenty-four helpless children in an arena and ask them to fight to the death, and you learn that the ‘inherent goodness’ in human beings is nothing but a thin veil maintained by law and order.

‘enjoying the show?’ you hear the familiar, cut-glass voice of drusilla, who’s currently festooned in a garish purple gown covered in feathers—with a hairpiece to match.

you shrug, taking a sip of the expensive champagne, feeling the bubbles fizz down your throat as you swallow. it’s all so much, the noise, the people—as if you’re being smothered.

‘you’re being awfully quiet,’ she sighs, brushing your shoulder with her perfectly manicured hand. ‘isn’t there anything to tempt you?’

drusilla is more sympathetic than most in the capitol; she’d listened as you’d told her about your family back in seven, the trees that spanned for miles, how you often lay under their green blanket and daydreamed of a world beyond this one. but still, she would never understand what being a victor was like, there were scarce few in panem who did. many turned to morphling or alcohol upon their return home, and you’d heard horror stories whispered about victor’s being sold for certain services.

‘i’m just tired, that’s all,’ you murmur, reaching for another glass of champagne as a waiter walks past.

drusilla cocks a thin brow, a suspicious look glittering in her eyes. the throng of people is dizzying as you down your second champagne, but you feel your nerves ease, and pray that this night will become more bearable.

‘come, they all want to see you—their victor,’ she grins, pearly white teeth glistening under the golden light of the strings of lanterns.

you take her hand, and she pulls you through the crowd. it’s a vertigo-inducing sea of rainbow; hands clasping together in applause, rich cheers from their panted mouths. you feel your own lips twitch into a smile, but your eyes are somewhere else; far away from this. you can smell the soil back home, see the larks that fly through the trees that reach to the heavens. there’s a dreadful pang of homesickness thrumming in your heart.

and yet you cannot return home, not when they’re all watching you, waiting for the pretty victor to make a witty remark, or to make bids on who will get to have her first. you’re acutely aware that your pink dress is practically see-though, it’s gauzy fabric not leaving much to the eye. your feet ache from the heels they’ve put you in, and you know no matter how much they primp and preen at you, you’ll always be district. an outsider among those in wealthy excess.

among the throngs of people, you spot him—president snow. your breath catches between your lips. you’ve seen him before, obviously. his touch has always strayed a little too much when he’s been around you, but of course, you’d never say anything. you wonder how such a young man—he’s only 24 after all—rose to such power. nobody can deny how attractive he is, piercing blue eyes and platinum blonde curls. if he hadn’t put you in these games, maybe you’d even be persuaded to like him.

drusilla pushes you to him, and you stumble a little, the champagne causing a heady, floaty feeling in your body as you make an attempt to make yourself presentable. you hadn’t expect to be thrust towards him so soon, but the way he’s staring at you is as if he’s been expecting this.

‘don’t be so nervous, you look gorgeous,’ drusilla reminds you as you come to a halt before president snow.

he’s wearing one of his finely tailored suits; this one the crimson shade of red you’ve so often seen him wearing. you feel your cheeks burn with embarrassment, and feel the absence of drusilla’s hand from your back. when you crane your neck—only slightly, so as not to seem rude—she’s disappeared into the throng of brightly clad partygoers.

‘my favourite victor,’ president snow reaches for your hand and presses a kiss to it. his lips are strangely cold. not that you knew what to expect, but somehow it makes sense. his demeanour is like ice.

‘president snow,’ you lean back into curtsy, your bad ankle aching as you do so.

he smiles, icy eyes flickering over your form. he can practically make out your undergarments in that dress; they’re a shade of peach and of such a sheer satin that you can nearly see right through, but it leaves enough for the onlooker to be left wondering what lies underneath. your eyes follow him, and you clutch at your arms shyly, as if half of the capitol hasn’t seen you dressed so scantly.

‘shy tonight, are we?’ he inquires, edging close enough to you that you can make out the slight five o’clock shadow on his jaw.

‘i’m tired, that’s all,’ you mutter, flinching as one of his hands grips at your waist.

‘i would’ve thought you’d enjoy this spectacle, seeing as you made quite the circus out of the arena,’ he leaned in close to your ear, in what you assumed was an intimidation tactic. in spite of being hardened by the arena, deep down, president snow terrified you. ‘the way you killed that boy from two—brutal. but you made yourself the star of the capitol…’

his touch strays further, grasping at the thin fabric that surrounds your ass. one blonde brow arches in surprise, and his lips flicker into what you assume to be a smirk. if he was anyone else, you would’ve pushed him away, but he’s your president. one word and you’d be good as dead; and after enduring the games, you’d rather not come face-to-face with that sort of confrontation again.

‘how pretty,’ he muses, fingers tracing lightly against your form. ‘did you wear this just for me?’

your lips purse, but your body propels you to give a swift nod of your head. ‘do you like it?’

president snow smiles, eyes dancing at your quick wittedness. the girls he has are usually stupid whores who he pays to suck his cock—you, on the other hand, are a precious prize. intelligent, obviously, and startlingly beautiful. and you’re the first female victor since mags flannagan, not that he has any say over her because he was still crawling his way up under dr. gaul then.

‘oh yes, i think you know why,’ he drops the fabric, and takes a few steps away, a blasé look crossing his features.

he watches as your cheeks turn a pretty pink, and you cast your gaze to the ground. how charming; you feigning bashfulness. he’d seen you at your most primal, knife dragging along the jugular of that boy. you couldn’t charm your way out of this one.

the silence pierces the air, and you are prompted to speak—anything to change the topic. the stagnancy between you two has wrapped it’s suffocating arms around you—and you don’t want to choke.

‘i must thank you, president snow, for the festivities,’ you gesture to the ridiculous amount of decorations; the blaring music and the light show.

‘i’m glad you like it,’ he remarks, but his eyes are still trained on you. he wants something from you, and you’re not sure what. ‘i had to celebrate my favourite victor, after all.’

you stifle a scoff; his flattery is sickening. he’s never this charming among company. he’s cold, calculating—you can see it in his eyes, still, but he so obviously needs you wrapped around his little finger. and of course, you can’t resist. who would disobey their president, after all?

‘you flatter me, sir,’ he swallows thickly at the appellation. god, he’d love to hear you call him that as he bends you over one of his expensive armchairs. he wonders if you’d beg him to stop, or if you’d take it. he can’t figure out which type you are, just yet.

‘there’s nothing wrong with flattery, don’t you think?’ he is close to you again, breath fanning your cheek. ‘especially when it comes from your president.’

you feel your body freeze up. there’s something so intimidating about him, and although you want to outsmart him, the way he makes your knees buckle turns you into another one of those bumbling capitol fools.

‘now, if you’ll excuse me, sweetheart. i’ve got a few matters to attend to,’ he backs away, leaving in a flourish of red.

you have to blink a few times to register his absence, and reach for another glass of champagne as a waiter holds out a decadent tray to you. why not? you think, taking time to sip elegantly at this one. there’s no harm in imbibing if you have to make it through this hellish night.

—

drusilla taps you on the back as you’re shoving an expensive vol-au-vent past your painted lips. when you turn around, she’s shocked to see your mouth full of the pastry, cheeks rounded out as you attempt to swallow it. the hunger pangs had grown considerably, and when you finally gulped it down, the effects of the champagne made you giggle.

‘oh honey,’ she shakes her head, reaching for a pristine napkin to wipe at the flakes of pastry by your lips.

the night had drawn on, and you’d been left with an anxious feeling after your encounter with president snow. everytime somebody so much as brushes against you, your head had whipped around as you searched for a head of perfectly-set blonde curls and a crimson coat. to your luck, it had only ever been waiters, carting more champagne. you reckoned you were drunk enough now that you didn’t care how you acted.

let them think you were a fool, you’d be heading home tomorrow anyways.

‘how much have you had to drink?’ she inquires, and watches as you furrow your brows in thought.

‘six, no—seven glasses,’ you admit, and drusilla scolds you with a clucking tongue, her pink curls bobbing as she shakes her head.

‘president snow won’t be very happy with that,’ she remarks.

your mouth turns into a curious pout, watching as her face falters into some sort of cryptic, far-away look. you run the soft fabric of your dress through your fingers as you let the words settle. no, it doesn’t make sense.

‘why would he care?’ you asked, a little piqued by the thought that he’d even be remotely interested in whether you were sober or not.

drusilla’s purple lips are drawn into a thin line, and she bends in close as if she’s ready to tell you a secret. your throat’s gone dry, the anxiety prying at you with it’s cold hands.

‘look, sweetie,’ her golden tone is laced with a little condescension. ‘president snow won’t like that you’re drunk. it won’t make the situation ideal for him.’

your brows quirk into a look of confusion. situation? drusilla sees your loss of words and takes it upon herself to inform you of the events. how naive you are, that you’ve got no idea just what he wants with you.

‘you’ve been asked to stay the night at the mansion,’ her eyes flicker to search for any eavesdroppers, and then she continues. ‘look, i’m sorry if i didn’t tell you earlier, but he’s asked to keep quiet about it. what with the others being jealous—’

‘others?’ your voice falters.

‘well, sweetie, you know how desirable victors are. president snow just wants to make sure nobody else gets their hands on you. that’s why he’s keeping you here, under close guard.’ drusilla bites her lip, revealing that she’s worried for you. she didn’t have much of a choice in your fate, but if she could forewarn you, she would.

you understood now why he’d been so touchy before—clearly he was jealous that somebody was trying to get their hands on his precious victor.

you lose all your words, mouth opening, nothing spilling out. it feels like it’s been filled up with dirt; you can hardly speak. drusilla goes to strike your arm, but is prevented from doing so as she’s whisked away by some blue-haired man harping on about her latest designs. once again, you feel the pangs of loneliness.

you had to reconcile yourself to the fact that the rest of your life—however long that may be—would be a lonely existence. you’d spent the better part of the month on the train, zigzagging back and forth between the districts, reading off prewritten speeches as you had to face the families of the fallen. all those children—their children—dead.

every night, you’d taken those pills prescribed by the doctors, the ones that stopped you from waking up with your hand around your throat as you screamed. you slept a dreamless sleep, but it became hard to not depend on them. what would you do without them tonight?

—

the party draws on long into the night, and you grow bored and overwhelmed. as per drusilla’s advice, and also not wanting to wake up with a throbbing headache tomorrow morning, you resorted to drinking the assorted non-alcoholic beverages.

your head is pounding by one am, but the party doesn’t seem to cease by any means. deciding you’ve had enough, and that nobody would really miss you—after all, nobody’s even talked to you for at least two hours—you stumble your way across the marble steps of the mansion. you hazily remember drusilla telling you what door you were meant to enter by, and you find it manned by a singular avox.

without a word, they let you inside, and you trail tipsily after them up a velvet staircase. your ankles roll as you climb the steps, head spinning, but it doesn’t take long to reach your room. your feet are aching, and when the avox leaves you to your own company, you practically tear the shoes off your feet.

you lay back against the white sheets, revelling in the feeling of the thousand-count cotton brushing against your skin. you’d never felt anything like it, and could feel your eyes shutting as you relax into the plush sheets.

you awaken what seems like hours later, but only twenty minutes have passed on the alarm clock by the bed. the sound of footsteps can be heard outside your door, and you’re surprised you can make it out as the party still booms outside the vast windows of the mansion.

you sit up, heart racing, and head throbbing slightly. you’re groggy from the champagne, and the bubbly tipsiness has given way to the absolute misery of sobering up.

the door opens, a small sliver of light giving way to the shadowy figure that progresses into the room. you squint, unable to make out a face, but pray it’s not one of the men you’ve heard were making bids for the victor.

you sigh a breath of relief when you see president snow, not a hair out of place as he stands beside your bed. your dress is up around your thighs, and you can see his blue eyes dancing across your frame.

‘president snow,’ you murmur into the darkness.

you wondered who had turned off the light in the first place—your memory is hazy at best but you don’t remember flicking the switch. an avox must have come past while you were sleeping.

‘i see my favourite victor has taken some respite,’ he muses, one cold hand reaching out to stroke your thigh.

you flinch back reflexively, not used to the icy feeling against your skin. nor are you used to the prying hands of men. the most you’d ever done was kiss a boy, and even then, that was years ago, you weren’t even sure it counted.

‘sorry,’ you spit out, lips trembling with apology. he only laughs, hand still tracing your smooth skin.

‘no need to apologise. i’d rather you doze here than fall asleep on a bench where any of those men could lay a hand on you,’ he makes a sound of disgust, shaking his head at the thought. ‘i couldn’t let them spoil my pretty victor.’

you feel your cheeks warm—did he really think you were pretty? but you remembered who he was; in fact he was the very reason there were even any games at all. he could put a stop to all this if he wanted, and yet he didn’t. you couldn’t let him fool you with his charm.

‘it’s very thoughtful of you, president snow,’ you offer, not wanting to raise suspicion in him.

in the moonlight, you can see a smile flicker across his lips. his hand moved further up to the apex of your thigh, and your breath hitches. what was he doing?

‘do you like that?’ he murmurs, leaning in against your ear, breath hot.

you can’t think of what to say. your thighs tingle a little with the touch, but you don’t want him there. it’s wrong. he’s the president though, and how can you tell him no when he could have you killed?

‘you’re a quiet one, aren’t you?’ he mutters, but wanting to rouse a sound out of you, he moves his hand to press flush against your panties, thumb stroking the area where your clit is.

you let out a breathy gasp; the pleasant warmth flooding your belly. his brows quirk up at your quick response—you’re so willing. he wonders how far he can push you; of course he wants to have you no matter what, after all, it’s his right as president—but he wants to know how much of a whore you are under those pretty clothes.

he knew what district girls were like. lucy gray—though that name made him shudder—bent easily under his guidance. he hoped you’d do the same; obey him. he had more power now, six years after his stint as a mentor and then peacekeeper. he kept that to himself; everybody else simply thought he’d been struck down with a bad bout of the flu, when really he’d been uncovering rebel plots by day and by night was burying his cock deep inside of whatever district slut would have him.

‘please, president snow,’ you beg, head spinning as he rubs at your sensitive nub.

‘please what?’ he inquires, an undercurrent of menace in his voice.

‘i mean—are you sure we should be doing this?’ you furrow your brows with anxiety. ‘aren’t there men who want to pay you good money for this?’

you squeeze your legs together in the hopes that he’ll stop, but this only angers him and he uses his muscular hands to pry your thighs apart. you can’t deny him this; he wants it, and he’ll have it.

‘oh, they’re not going to get you. no, you’re far too precious for the likes of them,’ he shook his head in disbelief. ‘when i realised you were going to be sold to some scumbag who’s been divorced three times, well, i couldn’t let that happen.’

your mouth stretches into a perplexed pout, and you let out another soft moan as he rubs diligently at your clit. his other fingers brush over your red lace panties, and he sucks in a breath as he feels how soaked you are. surely you cannot deny him when you’re practically begging for it?

‘but…’ your lips tremble and you are almost deterred from saying what you want to by the scornful look painted across his noble features.

‘surely you don’t want me,’ you scramble to find an excuse.

‘why wouldn’t i? it’s not like you’re a girl anymore, hm? you’re nineteen, and ever so pretty,’ his other hand thumbs your cheek. you didn’t feel it, but you’d been crying. his thumb presses against a droplet.

‘please,’ you plead. ‘you wouldn’t enjoy it—i’m a virgin.’

he laughs, shaking his head at your stupidity. he hasn’t suspected it, what with the way you were dressed; the gown revealing far too much of your body to him—he could see the top of your nipples sticking out of the neckline.

‘oh no,’ he clucked his tongue. ‘then i simply must have you. how could let you i waste your virginity on any of those men when i could have you?’

you shake your head, body trembling as you feel yourself give way to his fingers, which were slowly bringing you to your pleasure. you clutch at the plush sheets and feel yourself gush, your panties growing even more damp.

he can’t believe it, how quickly you came. he wonders if you’d ever even touched yourself before. sure, you’d killed a boy, but you really knew very little about the world, and even less of men. it enthralled him.

his cock strained in his suit pants, and he let out a low grunt. you responded with a shocked look, but sighed as he stood up, letting go of your thighs. the way he’d touched you—it was scandalous. surely he’d be in a lot of trouble if anyone found out?

but your heart fell when you remembered that he was president. it’s not as if you were anything more than a hired whore who had to do her duty by him.

‘you’re going to be good for me, aren’t you?’ he called out, combing a hand over his perfectly styled hair.

your mouth went dry, but you stood up, wanting to be defiant, clawing for anything to make you seem like you had some sense of autonomy. it was a lost cause, however. you forgot how he towered over you now that your heels were discarded. you couldn’t face up against him.

‘i said, you’re going to be good for me, aren’t you?’ his voice was wrought with ire this time, and you nodded.

‘yes sir,’ you respond with a clear tone. you’re surprised you even managed it.

he reaches out to stroke your face again, sighing as your warm cheeks meet the cold pads of his fingers. you tremble a little, knees buckling in fear. anything could happen.

‘now, are you going to be a good girl and show your president how patriotic you are?’ he asks.

‘yes, mr president,’ you reply blankly. the name sends the blood straight to his cock.

‘then get on your fucking knees,’ he commands.

your head is spinning, but you somehow find your way to the ground, knees aching as you press them into the wooden floorboards. you hear the sound of something unzipping, and when you glance up, you come face to face with his cock.

he’s hard, and huge—not that you’ve ever seen one before—and he lets out a heavy grunt as he sees how pliant you are. he wants nothing more than to fuck that pretty little face of yours and watch how you gag around his length. he hasn’t known he was so big until he’d gotten to district 12 and the stupid district sluts kept choking on his cock. when he’d dressed in academy rouge he’d only ever known his own hand. but now, he knew what power he could exert with all eight inches of himself.

‘good girl,’ he strokes your chin, and when you open your mouth, he slides his thumb over your bottom lip.

your saliva coats his thumb, and you gag a little as he slides it to the back of your mouth. a small grin flickers across his lips; if you’re choking on his thumb, just imagine how bleary-eyed you’ll be as you gag around his cock.

‘god, i don’t want to think about what i would be missing out on if you’d died in that arena,’ he tuts at the thought, and slides his thumb out of your mouth, smearing your own saliva at the corner of your lips.

your lipstick is smudged now, and he’s determined to ruin it even more; perhaps even have your mascara running down your cheeks as you take his cock in your mouth.

‘when i’d heard that the victor was to be the eighteen year old girl from district 7, well, i knew i’d be able to have you. especially once i got a look at you, in your victory dress. did they make it that short on purpose? to make my cock hard?’ he laughs, reminiscing how he’d taken a whore that night that looked just like you, pretending it was you that he was fucking from behind.

you shiver, terrified by him, his words. they’re disgusting. the way he viewed you as something to exploit—and it can’t even be considered taboo because you’re nineteen, after all. if the president wants you, he’ll get you.

‘answer me!’ he scowls, tugging at your intricate hairstyle, which hurts because the pins holding it together were already poking at your scalp.

‘no,’ you murmur, because it’s the truth. you wore what they told you to, you didn’t think it was supposed to be for him.

‘no?’ he laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘well then, tonight at least—they must’ve known i wanted to have you. wasn’t going to let you get away from me this time.’

you swallow thickly, mouth agape in terror, knees trembling against the cool floor. you can feel the bruises forming on them; the dull ache of kneeling is humiliating.

finally, he presses his cock against your open mouth, a little pleased that it was hanging agape in shock, making it easier for him to slide it right in. you freeze, blinking back tears of mortification, but you can't say no, not when he's your president, not when there's that nagging ache in your core that makes you yearn for his fingers back against you.

you open wider, and he slides himself in, cock hitting the back of your throat instantly. you gag, the tears now dribbling foolishly down your cheeks, and president snow just laughs, the sound mottled with undertones of a soft groan. you wrap your lips around him, and move to bob your head up and down, but he grabs your hair and tugs it towards him.

you cry out, scalp stinging and mouth stuffed full to the brim with his cock. his grip tightens as he begins to thrust into your mouth, grunting as feels your saliva coat his length. he can't even fit himself all in, it's pathetic, but he'll help you learn in time how to deepthroat, so he can watch as your mascara runs while you beg him to push himself further down your throat. you'll become his personal fuckdoll.

'teeth,' he winces as he feels your top teeth make contact with the skin of his cock, and embarrassed, you make sure to push your top lip around them.

his lips stretch around a groan, forcing your nose to meet his pubic bone—the sound of your gags are delightful, and when his eyes flutter shut, you know he's enjoying it. he tosses his head back, cock throbbing as he forces it back and forth in your mouth. when his eyes open again, it's to the sight of your mascara running, thick black streaks painting your cheeks as you choke around him.

'so pretty,' he strokes your cheek, smearing the mascara even more. he wonders if you'll still be crying as he stretches you out, filling your cunt with his big cock. probably; he's forgotten how much whining virgins do.

feeling himself close, his thrusts grow more haggard, and you feel his balls slap against your chin as you attempt to breathe—through your nose, of course. his movements are suffocating, you're grasping at his hips, praying for it to be over—and then it is.

hot sticky spurts of cum slide right down your throat as he gives a loud moan, crying your name in praise. part of you—the part you revile—reddens at his praises, you want nothing more than to please your president. the other part of you tries not to gag as the pearly ropes of his cum slither achingly slow down your throat.

'good girl, swallowing it all—you'd do anything for your president, wouldn't you?' he coos, pulling his cock out of your mouth.

your lips ache, and you're sure the back of your throat is blooming purple with a bruise; but you nod, eyes all fucked out because your cunt is dripping wet, all for him.

'well, i really only want one more thing from my victor...' his voice trails off, lips pursing. you can see the desire in his eyes, icy gaze dripping with lecherous intent.

and yet, you cannot deny the fact that he had already made you cum once, that your body is begging for him. you hate it. you want to scream—if only you weren't so tired and your mouth didn't ache so sorely.

'how about you lay back in the bed, hm?' his voice is soft, laced now with the sweet tone he uses to charm the wives of senators and the little girls that give him roses.

you oblige blindly, and rise, knees black and blue, legs trembling, but somehow you find yourself laid back against the plush sheets once again.

‘can’t believe nobody else has had you,’ he murmurs, removing his shoes carefully, and then undoing his suit. it’s brand new, and he doesn’t want to spoil it.

when he’s undressed to his boxers, you can’t help but admire his form. he’s well-toned, biceps muscular, the slight formation of abs on his stomach, and you can see his cock has once again hardened. you press your thighs together in want, and he watches as you gaze at him, half-terrified, eyes blown wide, and yet half-wanton, body beckoning him to take you and make you his.

‘god, you’re so pretty,’ he muses, crawling across the bed and placing his arms either side of you.

you shiver, suddenly feeling brushed with cold, perhaps it’s from him. how fitting, you think, that his name and touch are both reminiscent of the cold. you can feel his hard cock pressing against your thigh, a reminder of your helplessness in this situation. the way he’s going to do whatever he wants with you.

he slides his fingers under the straps of your dress, forcing it down your arms. you lie still as a stone, letting him slide the dress down your body, exposing your breasts, watching him sigh as your nipples respond to the frigid temperature radiating from his body.

he takes one breast in his mouth, laving at your nipple until it hardens under his tongue. your hands are urging you to clutch at his perfectly styled hair, but you cannot move; the tears are brimming in your eyes and you’re not sure if they’re out of shame that he’s touching you, or shame that your body is so pliant to his touch.

he pushes the dress down further, and gets on his knees until he’s completely stripped you of it. there you lay, among the pristinely white sheets, the party alive outside of your window; completely bare besides your panties. your skin is pocked with goosebumps as he runs his hands over your bare stomach, fingers latching at the waistband of your panties.

‘god, are you wet for me?’ he chuckled as he removes your soaked panties—still evidence that he’d managed to make you cum.

you are unresponsive until he gives your skin a pinch between his slender fingers, and a soft yelp escapes your lips.

‘talk to me,’ he commands, though there’s an undertone of begging. not that the president should ever have to beg. ‘i can’t have my pretty victor keeping silent, especially not while i fuck her. i want to hear the sweet sounds that are going to come from your lips.’

you give a nod, eyes flickering to glance at the ceiling, watching as the hazy lights from outside dance upon the ornate eaves. one of his hands touches your cheek, the chill bringing you back to meet his gaze.

‘gonna make you mine,’ he groans, reaching down to palm at his cock through his boxers.

you push away the tears at your eyes, and your hands go down to clutch at the sheets. you’re still a little floaty from the champagne, but it can’t seem to take you away from what is occurring right before your eyes.

'look at me!' he snaps, hard cock now pressing against the inside of your thighs.

'sorry,' you manage to get out, lips trembling as you brace yourself—he's big... too big.

'fuck, can't believe i get to have you all for myself...but i suppose it's the least i deserve as president,' a soft laugh plays upon his lips, the sound soon mottled by a low moan.

he eases the tip into your hole, sighing at your tightness. your eyes flutter shut, but strangely, your core only tingles as he slides himself into you. it's the ultimate betrayal—your body is yielding to him, growing wetter as he sheathes himself completely inside of you; at least, most of his eight inches.

'so fucking wet,' he grins devilishly, beginning to buck his hips gently.

you look so angelic, hair sprawled out on the pillow like a halo, the soft lights from the party glowing against your skin. coriolanus wants to take it slow, in spite of how much his cock is throbbing, because you are his prize—he must relish you. he can't let your virginity go to waste, after all. half the capitol has been vying for it, and now he is the one to take it. he imagines the disgruntled looks on the faces of the men who had bid for you when he informs them that you've been spoiled—and if any of them complained, well, he's the president. he could see to their... accidental deaths.

as he stretches out your tight walls, a pretty moan escapes your lips, by accident, but he takes this as a sign that you are surrendering yourself to him. coriolanus smiles a little to himself, and fastens the pace slightly, grunting as your body opens itself to his caresses.

‘you like that, hm?’ he inquires, one cold hand moving down to rub your clitoris.

you let out another gasp, this time of shock and pleasure, as his thumb presses against your sensitive nub. his eyes dance with delight as you come apart under him, your cunt growing slicker by the second. you’re so beautiful, and he glances down at the part where you two meet—his big cock stretching out your tight walls. a milky ring of your arousal coats his shaft, only driving him more lustful as he fucks you.

‘president snow…’ you cry out, trying to shove his hand away.

you can see the ire returning to his eyes, and when he presses down on your clit harder you stop and allow your body to relax. you realise it’s fruitless to try and fend him off anymore—he’s making you feel good, after all. but that’s the terrible part of it, the fact that you can feel waves of pleasure washing over you again. he’s smiling sickly, groaning as he ruts into you with grunts.

‘you're so fucking tight,’ he moans, watching you moan with pleasure as his fingers bring you to climax.

‘so good…’ you say, barely above a whisper, but the knowing look he cast you makes you admit it—after all, perhaps he’ll be kinder next time. let you decide when you want it.

‘yeah? you like the way my big cock is filling you out? how your president is reminding you who you belong to?’ he grunts, and you give a lazy nod.

the coil in your stomach comes unbound slowly as the combination of his cock stretching you out and his thumb rubbing diligent circles around your clit drives you over the edge. your toes curl sightly, arms moving up to grip at his back. you find the smooth, cold skin is surprisingly toned; hard muscles prominent under your touch.

you feel your pleasure peaking, body dancing with warmth and want. you try to stifle your moan by turning your head into the pillow, but his hand grasps your chin and pulls you back to meet his gaze.

‘don’t turn away from me!’ he scolds, brows knitting into a pained expression.

‘i’m sorry…’ you murmur, too ashamed to meet his gaze.

you feel a wave of pleasure wash over your body as his thumb coaxes another orgasm out of you—your second one for the evening. your cheeks fill with warmth as your arousal coats his cock, causing coriolanus to let out a breathy groan.

you pray that it ends soon, but your body continues to dance with pleasure and satisfaction, giving into him, allowing him to make his stake in you. his pretty little victor that he was deflowering—and she came around his cock and everything!

‘fuck,’ coriolanus grunts, hands travelling down to grab at the soft skin of your hips as he pounds into you. ‘all fucking mine. taking me so well…’

when you clench around him, he feels his balls tighten, and cock still for a moment as he reaches his own climax. you’re mewling so prettily—half-begging for him to stop by the way your head roles about in a dissociative reverie shows him that if your heart cannot be persuaded to take him, your body will.

‘shit,’ he spits as he slows his pace, dragging in and out of you at a painfully still speed.

he doesn’t want to finish so quickly, but you’re so fucking tight and your slick coating his cock has set his nerves on fire—his tip is throbbing with desire. coriolanus’ fingers are plunged into the supple skin of your hips, digging far enough that you feel a few bruises forming under the skin.

'so fucking tight,' he curses, sliding himself all the way out before filling you up to the hilt again. the sound of your wet cunt squelching around his big cock reverberates against the walls.

another moan escapes your plump lips, egging coriolanus on—clearly you're enjoying this to some extent; you've come twice tonight. next time he might not be so kind, after all, he's only being so sweet because you're a virgin—you're more like a prize to enjoy than anything else.

'gonna fill you up with my cum,' he sneers, eyes rolling shut as he pushes himself against your g-spot. you contract around him in response. 'you'd like that, wouldn't you? taking your president's cum? so patriotic, aren't you?'

the way he's still squeezing and pinching at your hips urges you to respond, so you cast a groggy nod—the champagne is still making your head swim.

'good girl,' he praises, and you respond with a genuine smile.

coriolanus grunts heavily, his balls tightening, and he feels hot spurts of cum spurt out from the tip of his cock. the relief that washes over him is blissful; watching you take every last drop of him makes him sigh deeply. you can't help but squirm at the sticky feeling as he thrusts his cum back up into you. you're trying not to lurch away in disgust—his hands, now clamping down on your shoulders, are keeping you there, close to him.

when he pulls out, he gazes at your weeping cunt in awe as his cum trickles down your thighs. you’ll always be his—he can see that by the tiny smudge of blood that also coats your inner thigh on one side. he doesn’t know if he can bear to sell you to those other men now; perhaps he’ll just have to lock you up here and keep you all to himself.

‘thank you, mr president,’ you murmur, half on the verge of sleep.

your body is humming with exhaustion, and you begin to curl up into a supine position, trying to force away the uncomfortable combination of his sticky cum and the dull ache between you thighs.

‘i’ll be back tomorrow,’ he presses a kiss to your forehead, smoothing a few tendrils of hair out of your half-closed eyes. ‘don’t think you can get away from me now, my pretty victor.’

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pin-k-ink · 7 months ago

Text

possessory // kuroo tetsurou

tw ⇢ rivals to lovers, sexual tension, possessive kuroo, fingering, begging, finger-fucking, locker room sex, dirty talk, unprotected sex, getting caught, marking, some yaku x reader if you squint

wc ⇢ 9.3k

a/n: my love for yaku shining through this fic. i’d to bite my knuckles trying to not write a threesome. luckily i’ve already planned something for my baby

The whistle pierced the heavy air like a gunshot, signaling the end of the heated practice match. You barely registered the shrill sound over the thrumming of blood in your ears as you panted harshly, chest heaving from exertion.

Your narrowed gaze remained locked onto the tall, rangy figure across the net - those sharp, watchful eyes that always seemed to glitter with something more feral than simple competition whenever you squared off. Kuroo's lips curved in that all-too-familiar razor's edge of a smirk as he raked his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead in one long pull.

The casual arrogance of the gesture made you grit your teeth against a low snarl. As if he didn't already know full well how obscenely distracting the subtle ripple of his arm and shoulder muscles could be when--

You viciously derailed that wandering train of thought before it could lead somewhere utterly unacceptable. There'd been enough heated incidents between you already without indulging a treacherous fixation on the physical. Even if Kuroo seemed hellbent on upending your restraint at every turn.

"Nice effort out there," he drawled loudly as the teams began separating to their respective benches. "I can definitely see some improvement from the last time we played."

The words were seemingly innocuous enough. But the low, gravelly delivery dripped with Kuroo's typical infuriating condescension. You felt your hackles rising instinctively at the spark of challenge banked in his goading stare.

"You're really working those compliments for all they're worth today, aren't you Kuroo?" you shot back acidly, pointedly raking your gaze over his sweat-soaked jersey with obvious disdain. "Need me to send you a thesaurus so you can freshen up that material a bit?"

Kuroo's eyes flashed briefly at the barbed retort, but the edges of that smirk only deepened further in a way that made your jaw tighten.

"If it ain't broke..." he trailed off with a one-shouldered shrug that you refused to let your eyes linger on.

Just like that, the thick undercurrent of animosity and unresolved tension reasserted itself between you. The energy sizzling in the air took on a distinctly more charged quality, like the first building pressure of an oncoming storm about to break. You could practically taste the torrid stirrings of heat and restless aggression prickling along your limbs.

This was nothing new in the undeniably volatile dynamic you and Kuroo had cultivated over innumerable practice matches and heated encounters. That endless cycle of provocation and denial destined to build towards...what end, neither of you ever seemed to acknowledge. But the friction generated by your clashing wills could be damn near scorching at times.

On the sidelines, you were vaguely aware of teammates shooting knowing looks back and forth, clearly no strangers to the blazing intensity you brought out in each other. Every subtle interaction between you and Kuroo seemed to bleed with unspoken tension and unsettled cravings that simmered just beneath the surface.

It had long been an open secret that your rivalry extended far beyond just the court itself. Though openly admitting as much remained strictly taboo.

Kuroo suddenly moved as if to step closer, an unreadable glint flickering briefly through those penetrating eyes. For a dizzying heartbeat, you thought he might continue provoking this simmering confrontation between you in a different, more incendiary direction.

Instead, Kuroo simply hooked his thumb at you in a deliberately casual gesture dripping with unearned arrogance, as per usual. "Keep telling yourself those little lies, kitten. I've still got plenty of ways to shut that smart mouth of yours that we haven't explored yet."

The heated innuendo landed like a physical blow, stealing your breath as your pulse kicked up a staggering notch. You refused to let your imagination indulge even a second's consideration of what depraved "methods" Kuroo could possibly have in mind. Some lines could never be uncrossed between your rivalry without irrevocably shattering everything.

So you settled for a derisive snort, turning on your heel and stalking away from that dark, all-too-appealing promise burning in his gaze. You refused to be the one to cave first and give Kuroo the satisfaction.

Just like always, the explosive friction between you would remain unresolved. No matter how urgently it simmered and begged for combustion, you would hold the line of restraint...

For now.

The charged encounter hung thick in the air as you tried and failed to shake off the lingering effects of Kuroo's taunts during the cool-down stretches. No matter how you willed your focus elsewhere, you were persistently, maddeningly aware of his presence across the gym floor.

Of the way he moved with that deliberately careless, arrogant swagger - all long, powerful limbs and sinuous grace as he bent and extended through the stretching forms. Every motion seemed calculated to snag your wandering attention, to goad your eyes into tracing the sculpted contours of muscle shifting fluidly beneath sun-kissed skin that glistened with a fine sheen of exertion.

You grit your teeth and averted your gaze stubbornly each time you caught it straying. But the phantom echoes of Kuroo's sinful murmurs about "shutting that smart mouth of yours" reverberated through your heated thoughts in an endless torrid loop.

Unbidden, your mind provided tantalizingly vivid flashes of just what form that insolent threat might take if he ever dared carry it out. You imagined the hot brand of Kuroo's mouth crashing against yours in a searing, breath-stealing kiss born of too much aggression and too little restraint. His calloused palms mapping out every whisper-soft inch of feverish skin as you both finally surrendered to the smoldering madness of your rivalry entirely.

The mental images proved so viscerally potent that you nearly missed the loud clatter of a water bottle being knocked to the floor a few feet away. You startled, cheeks flushing guiltily as you realized Yaku was eyeing you from the next mat over with clear amusement wrinkling the corners of his eyes.

"You're sure looking pretty spaced out over there," he commented far too innocently. "Everything...okay?"

Willing your features back to a carefully neutral mask, you shot your teammate a pointed look. "I’m fine, Yaku. Just still feeling it from the second set. Not sure where my head's wandering."

The lie felt hollow even to your own ears. But Yaku seemed wise enough not to press any further, simply nodding before continuing his regimen.

On the far side of the gym, you caught the briefest glimpse of Kuroo straightening up from his own stretches, running one long-fingered hand through his disheveled hair in a way that really shouldn't have been so distracting. His eyes found yours unerringly through the gaps and bodies between you. You tensed despite yourself, awaiting Kuroo's next inevitable flare of provocation.

For a long, heated moment he simply held your stare in silence, making an exaggerated show of slowly dragging his appreciative gaze over your flushed features and down the lines of your sweat-sheened torso. When next he met your gaze, his expression glittered with an utterly indecent gleam that made your pulse skyrocket unwillingly.

It was like he'd seen straight through your feeble attempts at restraint and composure. Like he knew with piercing clarity exactly where your wandering thoughts had gotten derailed just now, and was silently goading you to surrender that illicit trail entirely. The challenge issued in his heated stare was clear – keep denying this combustible charge smoldering between us and find out just how far I'm willing to push those boundaries.

You refused to be the one to break eye contact first, even as the air between you grew thick and heady. Even as desire bloomed like wild embers in the pit of your stomach in a way it absolutely should never have. Not for Kuroo, not your sworn rival and human catalyst for antagonism on and off the court.

And yet it burned there nonetheless, unconcerned with the rigid compartmentalization your common sense kept insisting upon. That insidious heat threatened to scorch you from the inside if you persisted in denying it outlet through even the most inconsequential of actions.

Another minute ticked by punctuated only by the harsh rasp of your breathing and Kuroo's cat-like observance. His eyes narrowed infinitesimally as if gauging the level of unraveling restraint behind your impassive front. Waiting to see if you would finally be the one to blink first.

You lifted your chin subtly in silent defiance. Daring Kuroo to escalate this latest confrontation between you to more scorching heights if he dared. You'd weathered far worse maelstroms of his undisguised provocation than this before, no matter how potent.

The hard line of his jaw flexed in mild approval at your steadfastness before at last Kuroo's lips curved in a sharply amused smirk. The one that never failed to slice through your serenity like the sharpest of blades.

"Don't hurt yourself, kitten," he drawled suddenly in that graveled rumble of a whisper that carried easily across the gym's stillness. "I know all about holding my breath for the things I really want."

The barely veiled innuendo in Kuroo's rasped words hit you like a physical gut punch, forcing you to strangle down the instinctive flare of molten heat that twisted low in your abdomen. He knew, that insufferable bastard knew exactly what effect his grating taunts had on you despite your best attempts at impassive defiance.

You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper, refusing to grant Kuroo the satisfaction of watching you react overtly. But the way his hooded gaze slowly raked over you made it clear he didn't need histrionics to read your body's traitorous responses loud and clear.

Kuroo's tongue swept out to drag deliberately along his bottom lip as you glared daggers back at him. The unhurried, vaguely obscene motion drew your eyes helplessly for a scorching second before you wrenched them away. You could have sworn you heard the low rumble of an amused chuckle from across the gym at your faltering composure.

The sudden jarring impact of a balled-up towel hitting your shoulder made you jolt violently. You whirled with a snarl already curling your lips, half-expecting Kuroo to have somehow slithered closer undetected just to continue provoking you.

Instead, it was simply Kenma eyeing you with that familiar half-lidded look of sardonic indifference - one earbud already dangling loose as he'd clearly sought to disengage from whatever this latest maelstrom of tension was between you and your so-called rival.

"You two need a cold shower or something?" he remarked flatly, seemingly oblivious or uncaring of the molten quality his observation took on. "Cut the foreplay and just fuck already. Could smell the unresolved sexual tension from across the gym."

You choked on a shocked inhalation at Kenma's blunt assessment, heat flooding your cheeks in a dizzying rush. The dull roar of abruptly resumed activity within the gym filled your ringing ears as others seemed to freeze mid-motion at his crass outburst. A quick glance towards the other side of the court revealed Kuroo staring back with eyes comically wide, lips parted around what was probably intended as a reflexive denial.

The awkward tension expanded with each passing second it went unacknowledged until finally Kenma rolled his eyes tremendously and simply stuffed his earbud back in, unmoved. The courts slowly came alive again bit by bit, the disjointed sounds of squeaking sneakers and voices just on the edge of too-loud once more filling the air.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Kuroo straightening his shoulders beneath the weight of your heated stare, almost like steeling himself for your answering volley. But rather than issue another round of barbed taunts, you simply clenched your jaw, grabbed your jersey and spun sharply on your heel to stalk from the gym before anything else could further test your tenuous grip on restraint.

Once in the empty locker room, you leaned against the blissfully solid surface of your locker and allowed yourself a shaky exhale. Your heartbeat felt like it was rabbiting out of control as you ruthlessly quashed the wanton direction your thoughts insisted on straying.

Kenma's crass remark shouldn't have landed with such searing effect, you told yourself sternly. Shouldn't have made your imagination conjure up such deliriously vivid fantasies about Kuroo pressing you up against the cool steel at your back right now as you finally surrendered to--

"Fuck," you growled harshly, pressing the heels of your palms against your traitorous eyes until spots of color burst across your vision.

You couldn't keep allowing your bitter rivalry with Kuroo to careen so perilously close to the edge of oblivion repeatedly. To let your cataclysmic friction continue escalating to such a razor-sharp precipice every time he proved insufferable enough to provoke every simmering frustration and desire boiling over inside you.

No matter how infuriatingly, inexplicably attractive you found the insufferable prick, you simply couldn't keep indulging these...what? Wild, indecent fantasies about him pressing you up against rough tile as you finally --

You took a deep steadying breath to abort that train of thought before it could derail completely off the rails into utterly forbidden territory. Again. Some lines could never be uncrossed between you and Kuroo without shattering the foundations of whatever this frenzied push-and-pull dynamic existed upon.

No matter how tempting the prospect sometimes felt.

The scalding shower spray did little to rinse away the lingering haze of heated frustration still clouding your thoughts. If anything, the punishing jets of water needling over your taut muscles seemed only to amplify the electric tension still humming beneath your skin in the wake of your latest encounter with Kuroo.

You grit your teeth against a low growl bubbling up your chest as your mind unhelpfully replayed the smug curl of his lips around those parting taunts - challenging you, practically demanding you admit some undeniable undercurrent still burned white-hot between you despite your constant denials.

Beneath the thundering spray, your hands clenched and unclenched in a vain attempt to rein in the roiling mixture of bitter antagonism and darker, more primal cravings that invariably got stirred up whenever Kuroo slipped beneath your defenses. You couldn't seem to prevent flashes of slick skin and molten friction from battering against the shattered remnants of your restraint.

The memories felt so viscerally potent in the aftermath of his provocation that you swore a strange staticky charge was building along your limbs. Like thunderheads rapidly converging toward their inevitable lightning strike. Wild, pent-up energy begging for release in an unbridled eruption you knew better than to give voice or form to.

With a sharp exhale, you braced your forearms against the shower tile and allowed the scalding spray to rinse over your neck and shoulders as you hung your head, trying in vain to steady your ragged breathing and derailed composure. Try as you might, you couldn't seem to shake the persistent imagining of Kuroo's larger, rougher hands replacing yours in mapping the slick trails of water over your overheated skin.

You swallowed hard against the vivid fantasy, against the wanton direction it kept trying to careen down despite your best efforts at restraint. Kuroo's shadowed silhouette would be so infuriatingly at home behind you like this - a predatory prowl straight from your most fevered subconscious yearnings as he pressed himself flush against your back with a low rumbling exhale that resonated to your very core.

The intrusive daydream flickered with dizzying lucidity behind your tightly screwed eyelids. Every slick inch of heated muscle rippling beneath your hands as you pivoted to seal your lips against his in a searing collision of unleashed desire. Kuroo's rough palms branding blazing paths down slippery expanses of soft skin as you arched into his maddening caresses in silent, desperate plea to finally explore those molten hungers to their conclusion...

With a choked groan, you whirled and pressed your forehead against the cool tile in an attempt to forcibly evict your tormentor from weaving his provocation into such a deliriously vivid fantasy. But the afterimage of his taunting silhouette remained burned onto the backs of your eyelids alongside the whispered promise of indecent transgressions, should you ever finally yield to that unchecked inertia carrying you straight towards them.

A dizzying shudder lashed through your overwrought frame as an anxious noise close to a whine escaped your trembling lips. You couldn't do this, couldn't keep allowing Kuroo to effortlessly provoke you to such maddening heights of frustrated longing and combustible lust with only a few heated looks and expertly wielded taunts.

It was like battling the inescapable allure of a riptide, the seductive siren call of its irresistible pull growing stronger and more irresistible every time you slipped beneath its churning rip currents before somehow wrenching yourself back to the surface at the last gasping moment. How long until even the most monumental force of will proved too feeble to keep dragging you back from the brink?

Kenma's crass words about cutting the "sexual tension" echoed unwanted through your whirling thoughts. You tried to swallow back the imagery his crude accusation summoned up, but some details still crept in past your battered restraints.

You. And Kuroo. Tangled up in a fevered, inevitable conflagration of slick heat and molten friction, napalm-bright desires burning until you were utterly consumed in a blast of searing rapture…

With a snarled curse, you reluctantly killed the shower spray - unable to escape your own torturous libido in the steamy confines any longer. Perhaps some fresh air might finally clear your head enough to dull these relentless indecent urges before Kuroo inadvertently provoked you into fulfilling Kenma's crass prediction at last.

The locker room feels oppressively warm and stifling as you emerge from the showers, skin still tinged pink from the scalding spray's futile attempt to rinse away your lingering frustrations. A thin sheen of perspiration almost immediately rekindles across your flushed chest and brow.

You swipe your forearm roughly across your hairline, trying and failing miserably to ignore the way rivulets of water trace tantalizing paths over your collarbones and breasts, down the taut planes of your abdomen. Each shimmering droplet's wake seems to leave pinprick trails of heightened sensitivity in its wake, maddeningly conspicuous against your overheated awareness.

With an annoyed grunt, you pull open your locker and reach for the thin cotton undershirt draped over the top shelf...only to freeze as an unmistakable, heady musk suddenly wafts up to assault your senses.

That rich, earthy, and utterly masculine fragrance feels like a physical blow lancing straight through your already compromised restraint. Instantly, you're assaulted with a barrage of unshakably vivid imagery unlike anything that has plagued you previously beneath the showers.

Kuroo looming over you, eyes hooded and lips parted around harsh exhales of barely leashed hunger. The heat of his solid frame pressing you back against unforgiving chill steel as electric shockwaves of friction build to maddening crescendos between you. His body branded like a searing brand against the sweat-slicked expanses of your bared skin as you arch and writhe beneath the exquisitely rough mapping of his hands, thighs parting reflexively in a wanton entreaty for deeper indulgence—

"Fuck," you snarl, hurling the offending garment across the small space like it has bitten you. Your breath saws harsh and shallow as you recoil from the vivid flashes still bombarding you from all sides.

That obscenely provoking scent...it hadn't been your shirt you'd started to pick up at all, you realize with a delayed sort of horror rapidly turning your belly to soured granite. The realization brings with it a whole separate series of incendiary imagery you are utterly powerless to prevent from sparking behind your tightly screwed eyelids like the world's most sadistic filmreel.

You, burying your face against that thick knit of soft fabric and breathing deeply of the headily masculine notes lingering there. Of salt and skin and vaguely woodsy musk as you try in vain to chase memories of their original source, to resurface those haunting fantasies like some lecherous addict chasing their next molten hit.

Perhaps even allowing one hand to trail slowly down your slick torso, fingertips blazing scorching paths southward as lurid shadow-flashes of Kuroo's sharply angled features fill your mind's eye. Of his heated gaze darkening to feral approval as you unapologetically surrender propriety to slake those smoldering cravings he's systematically and expertly stoked within you past all possible willpower to deny.

With a violence that belies you, you wrench your eyes back open to inspect the contents of your locker more closely. Sure enough, hanging carelessly amongst your own neatly folded pile at the very bottom is one of Kuroo's unmistakable crimson team jerseys. Your fingers spasm against the urge to reach down and tunnel into the temptingly soft knit, to willingly soak in that unholy musk until you're dizzy and molten with the imprint of him in your most forbidden fantasies.

Instead, you squeeze your eyes tightly shut again as a broken gasp rattles from between your clenched teeth. This just keeps getting worse, that tantalizing scent rapidly proving itself your own personal brand of siren's call towards crashing into the deepest pits of sin and self-indulgence—

The sound of an opening door freezes you like a stunned animal in your tracks. Your entire body snaps rigid with tension as your pulse kicks up several panicked notches, utterly dreading whoever might now bear witness to your clear unraveling.

Heart thundering in your ears, you slowly crack one eye back open with trepidation...only to feel the weight lift somewhat as Shizuku, one of your teammates came cautiously around the corner, cheeks slightly flushed in embarrassment.

"Oh! I'm so sorry," she stammers, clearly flustered at having stumbled upon you in this state. "I didn't realize anyone was still in here. I can come back later!"

You wave a dismissive hand before she can retreat, not quite trusting your voice not to come out incriminatingly wrecked just yet. Trying to regain your composure, you attempt to slow your ragged breathing as subtly as possible.

Shizuku nods hesitantly, not seeming entirely convinced as her sharp gaze continues raking over you with growing concern. "Are...are you feeling okay? You look really flushed."

The obvious worry in her tone makes guilt churn unpleasantly in your gut. You can only imagine what sort of indecent, overwrought state she's finding you in right now. A vivid flash of her somehow catching you red-handed while giving in to your wanton urges ricochets through your mind, making you swallow thickly against a rising blaze of heat.

Desperately, you shake your head in an attempt to physically dislodge the utterly unacceptable fantasy before it can take seed. Pushing a tight smile onto your lips, you wave Shizuku forward reassuringly.

"I'm fine, really!" you insist in a voice that thankfully doesn't waver as much as you'd feared. "Just...stepped out of a really hot shower is all. Probably going to head out soon anyway."

Shizuku visibly relaxes at your answer, offering a relieved smile. "Oh good, I'm glad it's nothing serious then!" She steps over to her own locker and begins digging through her gym bag without a second thought.

You let out a shaky breath, using her presence as a convenient excuse to turn your back and refocus on getting dressed and out of here before another intrusive fantasy tries to take root.

You stare at the rumpled crimson jersey with a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. Of course his scent had to linger cloyingly around the fabric in a way your senses couldn't seem to ignore, even after that shockingly scalding shower.

Heaving a frustrated sigh, you reluctantly snatch up the borrowed top and give it another inspecting look. There's a faint smear of deodorant along the collar line and a few scattered strands of short black hair stubbornly clinging to the soft cotton weave. Unmistakable signs of repeated wear and the masculine essence now permanently embedded into every delicate thread.

Your pulse immediately kicks up as new waves of heated compulsion crest over you at being surrounded by Kuroo's intimate essence like this. But grinding your teeth hard, you resolutely refuse to feed the treacherous undercurrents of want that seem insistent on cresting to the surface at every provocation from him.

No, you're determined to get yourself under control here. To put some distance between the unwelcome distraction he's become and regain a clear head once more. If putting on Kuroo's clothes helps provide any sense of closure regarding these increasingly indecent preoccupations...well, you're desperate enough to try just about anything at this point.

Before your resolve can waver any further, you slide the jersey up and over your head - the soft knit sliding easily over your still-damp skin and clinging to every curve of your torso like a second skin. Almost immediately you're enveloped in the smoky, vaguely citrus-tinged aroma of Kuroo's body wash and deeper musk. The disconcertingly familiar scents seem to drape you in a suffocating veil of molten heat that licks dangerously at the edges of your restraint.

You stagger back a few steps, chest heaving as fresh waves of phantasmic imagery come swarming like sharks to chum. Reveries of Kuroo's heated stare boring into you as he takes in the sight of you in his clothes with dark, burning approval. Images of him advancing with leonine grace, callused hands slipping beneath the loose hem to sear scorching trails over the naked, sweat-slick expanses of your--

With a frustrated growl, you grasp fistfuls of the offending fabric and yank it vigorously away from your sticky skin in a desperate attempt to gain some reprieve. But the damage is already done - the mere suggestion of being swathed in anything bearing Kuroo's personal essence is enough to trigger the instantaneous mental avalanche of indecent cravings and salacious fantasies you struggle so mightily against.

You pant harshly, feeling uncentered and perilously close to coming utterly unraveled like never before. How are you supposed to withstand this constant barrage of molten provocations from your sworn rival? How much longer can you even remain within your own right mind before surrendering to the siren's call towards combustible freefall?

Riding on the crest of that maddening spiral of thought, you make a desperate decision. With horribly shaky fingers, you grab at the button seam of your soaked gym shorts and frantically tear them open. You don't dare look down, don't want to see what sins your hands might inadvertently commit beneath the allure of Kuroo's infused jersey.

Instead, you squeeze your eyes shut tight and exhale a steadying breath as you shimmy out of the last of your clothes. You have to get a grip, have to focus your spiraling thoughts on literally anything else in this instant before you find yourself sleepwalking towards the edge of a point of no return.

It's only once your traitorous, damp gym wear lays discarded on the tile floor that you finally find the courage to crack one lid open hesitantly. When no fresh barrage of illicit visions immediately assault you this time, you gradually allow your death-grip on the jersey's hem to loosen.

There's still no question that wearing this small piece of Kuroo's essence so intimately against your naked skin feels nothing short of debauched. Like you've willingly attired yourself in sin made fabric in an act of lurid indulgence. But whether it's the cortisol dump from your panic, or simply that you've now grown painfully accustomed to the potency of his scent and provocation, you're no longer drowning in the tsunami of wanton cravings from only moments ago.

In fact, the steady drape of the already sweat-dampened jersey now feels refreshingly cool and grounding against your heated flesh. Like the familiar, lived-in scents enveloping you no longer hold the power to summon such incendiary visions - at least not in the sheer vast torrents they previously wrought.

You take a deep, cleansing breath and instantly feel some small fraction of clarity beginning to return. With it comes the growing certainty that letting Kuroo and your relentless rivalry send you careening down such lascivious mental spirals is both self-destructive and foolish.

The hard choice crystallizes with that clear-eyed realization - by putting your own scent and essence directly over his, you can gain back the upper hand in this personal battle toward retaining your restraint. By making Kuroo's jersey unequivocally yours through sheer force of intimate proximity, you neuter its power to continually push you towards mental unravelings of indecency.

You nod decisively at that plan of attack, already feeling some grounded sense of self-possession return.

Your first order of business after dealing with this inappropriately tempting distraction is returning Kuroo's clothes, of course. But damned if you won't savor a small sense of petty victory over regaining sovereignty over your turbulent thoughts and want first.

Then you can return to plotting ways to get deliciously even with your callous tormentor for all the maddening provocations and heat he's incited within you lately...

With your fragile sense of restraint regained for now, you quickly gather up your discarded gym clothes and shove them into your duffel bag, not wanting any more lingering reminders of Kuroo's scent messing with your hard-won clarity.

You move with renewed determination, trying not to dwell too long on the deliciously deviant thrill of simply existing in nothing but your rival's loose jersey while you prepare to leave the locker room. There's no point denying how utterly and deliciously illicit the sensation feels against your bare skin. But rather than unraveling you towards indecency once more, the mere fact that you've asserted control over the intimate situation helps keep those more prurient impulses at bay.

Still...that doesn't prevent the faintest tendril of heated want from curling low in your belly at the unmistakable mental flash of Kuroo's expression should he happen to stumble upon you like this. Of the blazing trail his gaze would no doubt scorch across every inch of visible skin as his eyes hooded with smoldering surprise and primal, undisguised hunger.

You bite down on your bottom lip hard enough to taste copper at that vivid imagining, feeling fresh pinpricks of arousal lancing through you. As always, the merest consideration of Kuroo's intense, provocative presence proves to be like singeing tinder to your subconscious libido - threatening to spark into a conflagration of wanton thoughts and indecent urges if left unchecked.

Shoving down that dangerous trail before it can consume you utterly once more, you quickly shoulder your bag and stride for the exit with as much purpose as you can muster. You're so focused on wrestling back control of your derailed restraint that you nearly crash headlong into Yaku as he rounds the corner, clearly on his way in after practice.

You both freeze mid-stride, eyes going wide as you take in each other's equally stunned expressions. For a longmoment the awkward silence stretches out between you, punctuated only by the sounds of your harsh breathing loud in the tiled stillness.

Then finally, seeming to find his voice first, Yaku lets out a low whistle as his sharp gaze rakes over you in one long, assessing sweep. "Well well...don't you look pretty cozy there, babydoll," he remarks, pitching his tone somewhere between casual observation and wry insinuation.

You feel heat flood your cheeks despite your best efforts, suddenly hyperaware of just how utterly compromising this whole situation must appear to any outside observer. Kuroo's jersey barely grazes the tops of your thighs, leaving the long toned lengths of your legs completely exposed and tantalizingly on display when paired with nothing else.

"Yaku, I - it's not what it looks like, I can explain--" you begin hastily, shame and embarrassment vying for control in your rasping tone.

But he simply shakes his head with a knowing grin, cutting off your flustered protests before they can truly take root. "Don't worry 'bout it, babydoll. Not my business to judge, and it sure ain't my place to cockblock either. Just tell that smug bastard Kuroo I want my fucking jersey back sometime this year if he's gonna be loaning it out like this."

With a wink and a shit-eating grin, Yaku saunters around your frozen form and continues on into the locker room, whistling cheerfully beneath his breath all the while. You can only gape after him, dizzy with equal parts embarrassment, annoyance, and grudging amusement at just how casually he apparently accepts stumbling across what he assumes to be the aftermath of some secret tryst between you and your hated rival.

Yet despite the overall awkwardness of the situation, some profoundly petty part of you also feels an innate thrill at the idea of Kuroo finding out you've been traipsing around in his clothes like some deliciously insolent afterglow.

The thought of watching those sharp features of his cloud over with displeasure and jealous possession lights an undeniable flare of wicked satisfaction in the depths of your psyche. You can't quite smother the devilish smirk that quirks your lips at the mere idea of provoking such spikes of dark territoriality from your arrogant rival over you flagrantly disregarding the "boundaries" between you in such a salacious manner--

Your molten chain of thought is brought up short, however, as another familiar figure comes prowling around the corner with the sort of leonine confidence that immediately sends a frisson of electric awareness zinging down your spine. For a dizzying instant, it's like every scintillating erotic daydream you've been battling lately roars to vivid, lurid life right before your very eyes.

There's Kuroo, strutting in with that same loose-limbed cockiness you've come to expect, likely fresh from pushing his own training regimen to its limits as usual. His practiced ease falters perceptibly as he clocks the fact that you're not only still here, but...well.

You watch with thirsty relish as those piercing amber eyes blow wide in a potent combination of shock and molten male-appreciation - the unmistakable signs of desire and possessive outrage already warring behind them as they blaze over every exposed inch of skin you've left available to his perusal.

"The fuck, kitten?" he finally manages in a slightly strained growl. "You just couldn't resist helping yourself to what's mine, could you?"

You shrug one shoulder lazily, not even trying to feign innocence as you let your gaze blatantly roam over his frame in return. "Don't act so scandalized, Kuroo. It's not like you've never wanted to see me in this state before."

His nostrils flare at your brazen words. You can see the way his throat works as he swallows thickly. "That's a dangerous assumption to be making there, sweetheart," he bites out, clearly trying to regain some veneer of control.

Chuckling lowly, you hook a finger into the jersey's neckline and tug it aside just enough to expose a teasing glimpse of your collarbone and the swell of your breasts. "Is it though? Or are you just getting flustered by how easy it'd be to peel this off me and see what other bad decisions I've made?"

A muscle ticks in Kuroo's clenched jaw at that. He takes a single predatory step closer, movements tight like a compressed spring as his eyes darken perceptibly. "You never did know when to quit provoking things you can't handle, kitten."

You hold his smoldering stare boldly. "Maybe I'm just finally acknowledging things I've wanted to provoke all along."

The loaded suggestion seems to snap the final threads of Kuroo's restraint. A low rumbling growl reverberates from deep in his chest as he surges forward in one sinuous, barely leashed movement. You only have a split-second to react before his broad frame is looming over you, caging you back against the lockers as he braces an arm above your head.

"Careful what you wish for, babydoll," Kuroo breathes in a horribly tempting rasp right against the pulse point of your throat. His free hand skates up beneath the hem of the jersey to sear over the bare skin of your inner thigh. "I'm not feeling too generous with things that belong to me right now."

Any provocation or pithy response dies on your lips as those calloused fingertips drag a scorching trail higher. Instead, all that escapes is a shaky exhalation that Kuroo seems to drink in like a fine vintage as his lips curve in a predatory smirk.

"That's what I thought," he rumbles in that gruff, smoky tone that vibrates through you in delicious waves. "Now why don't you be a good little thief and show me exactly what sins you've been coveting, kitten?"

The low, carnal rumble of Kuroo's challenge hangs thickly between you as that large, calloused hand continues blazing a scorching path up the sensitive inner expanse of your thigh. You can't quite muffle the trembling whimper that stutters up from your chest as those questing fingertips dare to drift ever higher beneath the loose hem of the jersey.

"That's it, kitten..." he purrs in a voice made viscous and ragged by naked want. "No more pretenses now that we've reached the inevitable conclusion of those teasing little games of yours."

Kuroo's free hand suddenly winds into your hair, not quite gentle yet not overtly harsh either as he guides your head back with a subtle tug. The new angle leaves the long vulnerable expanse of your throat deliciously exposed and straining against the first delicate blossoms of bruising kisses he presses there like sin-soaked brands.

"This is what you were begging for all along, isn't it?" he rasps against your feverish skin between each indecent new imprint of his lips and tongue. "All those brazen little taunts and glimpses of temptation you couldn't resist flaunting right in front of me. Like some shameless siren calling out for her reckoning."

His wicked mouth has found that one spot just below your jaw that never fails to rob the strength from your limbs. You tremble violently as Kuroo laves his scorching tongue over that sensitive point in clear exploitation, surrendering a stuttering keen of pure rapture that seems to spur him on like a drug.

"Fuck, kitten...do you have any idea what it took not to lose control and take what's mine with my bare hands whenever you bared your slutty little neck for me?" he growls with heartfelt vehemence even as his free hand continues its molten trek higher and higher beneath the jersey's hem. "How many times I've had to wrestle down the urge to mark every single inch of you in ways you'd never forget just who those sweet little sounds belong to?"

That large, rough palm finally, blissfully finds its inevitable destination between your parted thighs. You shatter utterly at the first undeniable caress of deft fingers slicking through your embarrassingly wet folds. Kuroo growls deep approval at the state of utter ruin you've been reduced to by his carnal words and touches alone.

"Look at you...so fucking needy and desperate for me already," he rumbles with that unholy confidence only a man utterly assured in his dominance can possess. "And to think you tried to lecture me about teasing...you've spent who knows how long just aching to be taken apart like this."

You whine shamelessly, head thrashing against the unyielding steel of the lockers at your back as two thick fingers find your entrance and begin circling in maddeningly light, teasing strokes that scatter every coherent thought to the winds.

"P-Please..." you hear yourself whimper in a broken, debauched rasp that only seems to make Kuroo's eyes blaze darker with fresh coals of sin-steeped possession igniting behind them.

"Please what, kitten?" he demands in that low, ritualistic timbre that somehow reaches straight down into your very core and seizes every hidden erogenous zone in its grip. "Use that messy little mouth and beg properly for what a desperate little slut like you so clearly needs from me."

"Kuroo, fuck- I need you to...I need you inside me, please!" The words tumble from your lips in a heedless slurry of desperation that would have shocked your more restrained self into mortified silence. But here, now, with those large fingers still lazily circling your molten entrance as he raptly drinks in every debased plea, nothing else seems to matter.

In one smooth motion, Kuroo's hand leaves your sweat-dampened hair as he hitches the jersey's hem higher in a wordless command you swiftly obey - until the garment is rucked up to allow his searing gaze full view of the sinful ministrations he's reduced you to. Of just how wrecked and shattered you've become beneath his skilled touches and unrepentant provocations at last.

"That's it, open those gorgeous fucking legs for me and watch just how thoroughly I'm going to relieve you of these indecent little cravings once and for all," he vows in a growl dripping with decadent sin and virile promise.

A single broad fingertip finally, blissfully delves into your soaked folds - breaching the snug walls of your entrance with the sort of languorous, deliberate pace that speaks volumes of the unhurried plans Kuroo has for your ruin. A second blunt digit follows not long after, slowly and carefully working its way deeper into the tight sheath of your pussy, stretching the untouched muscles in the most toe-curling, obscenely exquisite agony imaginable.

"God, kitten, you're so fucking tight..." Kuroo growls, a raw note of lust and male-appreciation bleeding into his voice as he takes in the sight of his fingers buried deep in your fluttering, dripping core. "Just look at how eagerly your slutty little cunt is trying to suck me in even deeper...tell me, are you this starved for my cock, or just that desperate for a good hard fucking?"

"Fuck, Tetsurou, don’t talk like that-!"

You break off in a keening gasp as Kuroo's thumb finds your clit and begins working the engorged bundle of nerves with slow, precise movements. His other hand still holds the jersey's hem up and out of the way, giving him a perfect view of his fingers pistoning slowly in and out of your soaked depths.

"What's wrong, kitten?" he purrs with an evil chuckle, leaning in until his breath scalds hotly against your ear. "You don't like the truth being laid out before you like this? Admit it, you're soaking wet just thinking about me filling you up until I'm the only thing you can think about anymore."

"I-It's not like that, please, you're driving me crazy--!"

"That's exactly the fucking point, sweetheart." Kuroo punctuates his assertion with a particularly vicious thrust that makes you mewl and arch into him. "Now stop holding back and tell me exactly what I want to hear, or I'll keep making a mess of your pretty little cunt until you can't remember how to speak anymore."

Your eyes fly wide open at that threat. "Kuroo, I swear to god, if you don't finish what you've started, I'm going to--"

"What, kitten?" Kuroo growls, teeth finding the tender juncture of your throat and jaw in a savage nip that sends a shockwave of electric sensation straight through you. "Gonna try and fuck yourself on my fingers until you come? Is that what you want, to ride my hand and fuck yourself silly while I watch?"

"Kuroo-!"

"Then go ahead," he commands with a feral, carnal sort of relish. "Ride my fingers and prove how much you need this, kitten. Let me see just how depraved a slut you really are, and I'll give you everything you've been begging for."

"Y-you bastard, I swear, I'm going to kill you!" you choke out as your hips begin bucking up against his hand of their own volition.

But rather than taking offense at your weak insult, Kuroo simply flashes that wolfish smirk that's haunted so many of your lurid fantasies. His amber eyes bore into you with a burning intensity that makes something primal and instinctual twist and writhe within you.

"Oh, don't worry, kitten. I fully intend to fuck you into submission, right here and now, just the way you've always wanted. That is, unless you'd rather beg me on your knees like a good little girl to fill your pretty, empty cunt with my cock and fuck you like the greedy little slut you are."

At his filthy promise, an electric charge zings down your spine and pools like liquid fire low in your belly. You feel yourself tightening around his fingers like a vise, hips bucking wildly in search of that final, elusive threshold of release as Kuroo continues working your clit mercilessly.

"Come for me, kitten," he breathes in a guttural rasp that resonates with something far more fundamental and bestial. "Come for me now."

Like a puppet cut from its strings, your entire body seizes up. Your back arches almost painfully as a scream rips itself from the back of your throat - a sound so wild and animalistic, you scarcely recognize the wanton creature it's torn from.

The force of your climax rips through you with the same white-hot intensity of a lightning strike, making you buck and thrash wildly against the unforgiving steel behind you. The pleasure is so acute, so agonizingly blissful, it's as if every nerve ending has been stripped raw and exposed to the elements.

It feels as if your release goes on forever, wave after wave of unadulterated pleasure crashing through your trembling limbs and wringing a steady, high-pitched keen from the very core of your being. It's only Kuroo's free hand coming up to cover your mouth that smothers the wanton sounds of ecstasy tumbling from you without restraint.

The world narrows to the sensation of his strong, calloused hand pinning you down with easy dominance. To the feeling of his fingers pumping slow and steady within the spasming clench of your oversensitive walls, as if wringing every possible drop of pleasure from your spent body.

It's a full minute or so before the world begins to gradually filter back in through the haze of blissful release. As it does, you become gradually aware of the way your entire body is still trembling with small aftershocks. Of the way Kuroo's dark head is pressed into the hollow of your shoulder, his lips moving as if in prayer as he breathes you in like some rare perfume.

When he finally pulls away to meet your gaze, his expression is almost reverent. "There she is," he murmurs with a soft chuckle, eyes warm and fond as they roam across the slack lines of your face. "I've been waiting a long time to see you looking that undone, kitten."

You swallow past a suddenly dry throat, the last vestiges of euphoria still buzzing through your veins as you try to process the magnitude of what's just happened. Of the way the heat and tension between you has reached its inevitable, combustible conclusion at last.

But rather than being sated or even satisfied by the act, a fresh wave of molten want immediately re-ignites like a furnace in the pit of your belly. Suddenly the memory of his calloused fingers buried inside you feels like an itch beneath your skin that can't be satisfied with anything less than the fullness of his cock.

"Tetsurou, please..." you hear yourself rasp, the need thick and urgent in your tone as your gaze drifts meaningfully down his still-clothed form.

Kuroo follows the path of your gaze with a low chuckle. He slowly withdraws his fingers from your sopping entrance, drawing a soft whimper from your throat at the loss. You're too far gone to be embarrassed by the lewd, wet sound the motion creates, however, too consumed by the sudden, aching emptiness now gnawing at you.

"Easy, kitten, we're getting there," Kuroo soothes, reaching down to deftly unfasten the fly of his shorts. You feel a sharp thrill shoot through you as his large, capable hands free the swollen length of his cock at last, leaving it standing flushed and proud before your rapt gaze.

"Look at that, so greedy you can't even wait for me to take these off properly first," Kuroo chuckles, giving his stiff length a slow, leisurely stroke that makes something dark and possessive ignite in the depths of his gaze. "Tell me, are you going to be a good girl and take all of this for me, hm? Or am I going to have to remind you exactly who's in control here?"

"T-tetsurou..." you manage, already feeling that dark, viscous hunger unfurl within you.

The sight of Kuroo's cock, swollen and rigid with lust, is enough to drive any further attempts at coherency from your mind. All that matters is having the thick, pulsing heat of his cock filling the empty, aching void between your thighs at last.

Kuroo's gaze rakes over you ravenously. He looks like a man ready to devour every last inch of you without restraint. And right now, you'd willingly submit to anything and everything he demanded if it meant feeling the full weight of his cock plunging deep into the molten sheath of your pussy.

"Turn around, kitten. Face the lockers and hold yourself open for me," he commands, already guiding you with firm hands until you're braced against the cold steel. "I'm going to fuck you like this. Gonna make you take all of me at once, and leave you a mess of cum and debauchery. Then maybe I'll drag you home and show you exactly what it means to be mine."

The mere thought makes you dizzy. You quickly move to obey, spreading your legs wide and bracing yourself against the unyielding lockers as you bend over and expose the glistening pink folds of your cunt.

"Please, Tetsurou, I need your cock so bad, please," you hear yourself babbling without a care, so consumed by the maddeningly empty ache inside you, nothing else seems to matter. "Please, just fill me up and fuck me already, I'll be a good girl and do whatever you want, just please!"

Kuroo's responding growl of approval is nearly subhuman in its depth. In the next instant, the heavy, searing heat of his cock is finally pressing into the entrance of your drenched pussy. You choke back a sob as his length plunges mercilessly in to the hilt with one fluid thrust.

For a long moment, Kuroo remains perfectly still. It feels as if every muscle in his powerful body has turned to stone as he struggles to maintain some modicum of restraint. But when you begin clenching around him with short, desperate jerks of your hips, it's like a switch is flipped.

His hands find your hips in a bruising grip, fingers digging into your soft flesh hard enough to leave marks as he pins you in place and begins thrusting into you with ruthless intent. With the first powerful surge of his cock, all higher functions of thought seem to cease. The only thing you can focus on is the way his length fills you with such delicious friction, splitting you open and leaving you breathless and utterly wrecked.

"Fucking hell, kitten, look at the way your slutty cunt is trying to suck me in," Kuroo groans, sounding dangerously close to his own peak. "Feels so fucking good...can't believe I've been waiting this long to make a mess of you, fuck-!"

His movements are becoming more and more frantic, losing the careful rhythm of his previous thrusts as his hips buck into yours with the frenetic intensity of a wild animal. Every harsh, jarring slap of his pelvis against your ass, every inch of his cock stretching you to the limits, is like a drug straight to your system.

The pressure builds and builds until your body is practically singing with the sheer anticipation of release. Your vision is beginning to go blurry around the edges, the air thick and syrupy as it leaves your lungs in a series of helpless, mewling cries.

Kuroo's large, rough palm suddenly snakes its way around your waist, his thumb finding your clit and pinching it hard as he pounds relentlessly into your tight sheath. You scream as the sudden stimulation sends you plummeting off the edge, your entire body seized by a second orgasm that hits you like a tidal wave.

In the next instant, Kuroo's hips jerk violently against yours, his entire body going rigid as a drawn bow as his release finds him. The sound that tears itself from his chest is guttural, bestial, the kind of noise a man can only make when reduced to his basest, most primal instincts.

You can feel his cock pulsing as he shoots load after load of cum deep inside you, filling your womb and flooding your inner walls with the evidence of his pleasure. You're so far gone, your head spinning and your limbs quaking, it's like floating outside yourself, watching the scene play out from afar.

You don't know how much time passes like that. How long the two of you remain tangled together, sweat-damp and sated and panting as if you've both run a marathon. It feels like ages before you begin to surface once more, awareness gradually returning with each measured breath and the slow, deliberate way Kuroo's hand begins smoothing over your trembling flesh in lazy circles.

When he finally slips free, you can't quite stifle the faint sound of loss that escapes you. But before you can mourn the loss too deeply, Kuroo's already spinning you around to face him, capturing your mouth in a hungry kiss as his arms come up to band around your waist.

"Mmm, I could get used to that," he murmurs as he breaks away, resting his forehead against yours. His voice is still ragged and slightly breathless, but there's no mistaking the languid, decadent satisfaction dripping from his tone.

You chuckle weakly, unable to suppress a shiver as his hand begins idly stroking the curve of your ass. "You really are a bastard, Kuroo. What happened to showing a little self-control, hm?"

"I could say the same to you, kitten," he returns, not the least bit remorseful as his mouth twists into a wolfish grin. "But if you'd really rather be calling me a bastard than moaning my name, well. We can go right back to square one and I'll fuck you stupid again until you're screaming the right name."

"Oh god, shut up," you groan, burying your face in his chest.

Kuroo laughs, a dark, sinful sound that makes your pulse flutter even in the midst of your mortification.

"What the fuck?!"

A new voice rings out from the locker room entrance, making both you and Kuroo freeze mid-embrace. Turning slowly, you see Yaku standing stock-still with a stricken expression on his face. He takes in the two of you, the state of undress, and the obvious aftermath of a tryst with a look that can only be described as a mix of shock, disgust, and mild arousal.

"Seriously, Kuroo, in the locker room? You couldn't find a better place to fuck this shameless hussy?" he complains, making no move to hide the fact that he's blatantly checking you out despite the indignant tone.

Kuroo simply shrugs one shoulder, completely unrepentant. "What, jealous, Yakkun? You can always join us, I'm sure she wouldn't mind a second cock."

"Kuroo, for fuck's sake!" Yaku snaps, throwing his hands up. "This isn't a fucking gangbang! Go get a room somewhere, I'm trying to get dressed here!"

"I don't mind a little audience," you remark casually, reveling in the way Yaku's eyes go comically wide as he processes the implications of your words. "But if you don't hurry up and make a decision, I'll be riding Tetsurou's cock again."

"I can't fucking believe you," Kuroo breathes with a dark chuckle. "First the jersey and now this...you're really not going to give me a break, are you?"

"Nope."

#haikyuu smut #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x reader smut #kuroo smut #kuroo tetsurou #kuroo x reader #kuroo testuro #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo tetsurō #kuroo tetsuro smut #haikyuu kuroo #kuroo x reader smut #yaku morisuke

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starrylanex · 10 months ago

Text

JEALOUSY, JEALOUSY

PAIRING - bucky barnes x reader

SUMMARY - bucky cant help but get jealous at stark’s party as he watches you interact with the others, because all he wants to do is kiss you then and there

WC - 1,1k

EXTRA - one use of y/n, bucky being jealous and overprotective, stark being a smartass,

NOTES - hi angels, if i made a patreon where i would update regularly with longer fics and answer your asks quicker, would anyone support me there too?

PS. - english isn’t my first language so if you see any grammar or spelling mistakes please don’t hesitate to point them out:))

—

the rhythmic pulse of music filled the opulent halls of stark tower, the vibrant lights casting kaleidoscopic patterns across the dance floor. tony stark's parties were legendary, a whirlwind of glamour, extravagance, and hedonism. yet amidst the glittering throng of guests, bucky barnes found himself feeling distinctly out of place.

clad in a sleek suit that hugged his muscular frame, bucky stood at the edge of the room, his steel-blue eyes scanning the crowd with a mix of wariness and apprehension. his grip tightened around the crystal tumbler in his hand as he watched the scene unfold before him.

amidst the sea of revelers, his gaze inevitably found its way to you, the object of his affection and the reason for his unease. you moved with effortless grace, your laughter ringing out like a melody amidst the voices.

bucky's heart clenched painfully in his chest as he watched you interact with the other guests, a swarm of admirers vying for your attention. he knew he had no right to feel this way—no claim over you—but the sight of other men hovering around you like vultures sent a surge of possessiveness coursing through his veins.

"hey there, buckaroo," a voice interrupted his thoughts, and bucky turned to see tony stark himself sauntering up to him, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

"enjoying the party?" tony asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief and sipping on his own glass of champagne.

bucky forced a tight smile, the tension in his jaw betraying his true feelings. "yeah, it's a real blast," he replied tersely, his gaze flickering back to where you were standing across the room.

tony followed his line of sight and chuckled knowingly. "ah, i see. keeping an eye on y/n, are we?" he teased, nudging bucky playfully.

bucky bristled at the implication, his jaw clenching in frustration. "she's just a friend," he muttered through gritted teeth, though the words felt hollow even to his own ears.

tony raised an eyebrow, his expression one of mock disbelief. "right, just a friend," he echoed, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "tell me, barnes, do you always look at your friends like you want to devour them whole?"

bucky's cheeks flushed crimson at the implication, a surge of guilt mingling with the simmering jealousy in his chest. he opened his mouth to protest, but before he could utter a word, a commotion erupted across the room.

a group of boisterous guests had gathered around you, their laughter ringing out like a chorus of bells. bucky's heart plummeted as he watched a particularly persistent admirer step too close for comfort, his hand lingering on your lower back.

without a second thought, bucky was striding across the room, his jaw set in a steely resolve. he reached you in a matter of seconds, his presence looming over the other man like a thundercloud.

"is there a problem here?" bucky's voice was low and dangerous, a warning laced with thinly veiled menace. winter soldier coming through for a second.

the other man recoiled at the sudden intrusion, his eyes widening in surprise. "n-no, no problem at all," he stammered, taking a hasty step back.

bucky's gaze never wavered from yours as he gently took your hand in his, his touch warm and reassuring. "come on," he said softly, his voice a soothing balm amidst the chaos of the party. "let's get out of here."

you nodded wordlessly, your heart pounding in your chest as bucky led you away from the crowd, his protective presence a shield against the world outside.

as you slipped away into the quiet solitude of the night, the tangled web of jealousy and desire that had ensnared you both seemed to unravel, leaving only the fragile threads of something deeper—a connection that transcended words and boundaries, binding you together in ways neither of you could fully comprehend.

the cool night air greeted bucky and you as the two of you stepped out onto the balcony, the cacophony of the party fading into the distance behind you. bucky's grip on your hand remained firm but gentle, a silent reassurance in the darkness.

"i'm sorry," you murmured, breaking the tense silence that hung between them. "i didn't mean to cause a scene back there."

bucky shook his head, his expression softening as he turned to face you. "you didn't do anything wrong, angel," he replied earnestly, his thumb tracing soothing circles on the back of your hand. "i just couldn't stand seeing you surrounded by those assholes."

a soft smile tugged at the corners of your lips, gratitude warming your heart at his words. "thank you, bucky," you whispered, your voice barely above a whisper. "for always looking out for me.

bucky's heart skipped a beat at the sincerity in your eyes, a rush of warmth flooding his chest. "always," he vowed, his voice filled with quiet determination.

for a long moment, the two of you stood together in comfortable silence, the only sound the gentle rustle of the wind against the city skyline and faded music coming from the party. the weight of unspoken emotions hung heavy in the air.

then, without warning, something came over him, and bucky's hand cupped your cheek, his touch tender yet possessive as he leaned in closer, his lips hovering just inches from yours. time seemed to stand still as you gazed into each other's eyes, the world around you fading into obscurity.

he waited patiently for you to move away form him, to give him a sign that this wasn’t what you wanted, but you stayed still, waiting for him to finish what he started.

and then, with a soft exhale, bucky closed the distance between you two, his lips meeting yours in a gentle kiss that spoke of promises yet to be fulfilled. it was a moment of pure vulnerability, a silent confession of the feelings that had long simmered beneath the surface.

as you finally pulled away, not because you wanted to, but because you had to take a breath, the world seemed to shift on its axis, the weight of uncertainty replaced by a newfound sense of clarity. in each other's arms, the two of you found solace amidst the chaos, a beacon of light guiding them through the darkness.

"i don't ever want to lose you, precious," bucky whispered, his voice barely audible above the whisper of the wind.

you smiled softly, your heart overflowing with emotion as you pressed closer to him, seeking refuge in his embrace. "you won't," you promised, the words a vow etched in the depths of your soul. "i'm right here, bucky. Always. and i dont plan on going anywhere anytime soon."

and as you stood together beneath the starlit sky, your intertwined hands a symbol of the unbreakable bond that bound you two together, you knew that no matter what the future held, you would face it together, hand in hand, hearts entwined in a love that defied all odds.

#fanfic #x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #bucky barnes fluff #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky fic #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes #mcu x reader #tony stark #mcu bucky barnes #tony stark’s party

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azzibuckets · 5 months ago

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two can play [paige bueckers]

paige bueckers x fem!reader

summary: you and paige are both extremely petty and extremely jealous people

word count: 1k

masterlist

The tension between you and Paige was unspoken, but so palpable that even your teammates were giving the two of you a wide berth.

You knew what Paige was doing. Asking one of the strangers at the beach, a pretty young girl with fiery red hair, to rub in her sunscreen for her. The girl had agreed a little bit too eagerly, had let her eyes drop across Paige’s body, skimpily clad in her navy blue bikini, before squeezing the white lotion into her hand and letting her palms spread sensually across the expanse of Paige’s shoulders.

The redhead’s fingers began dipping below the straps of her bikinis, fluttering across Paige’s sides and coming too close to the swell of her breasts. You gritted your teeth, hating the way Paige was leaning into her touch, allowing this bitch to feel her up. You made the mistake of making eye contact with Paige, and the smirk she sent you was knowing and dangerous, as if she could read every one of the violent desires pervading your thoughts.

It was a game, and neither of you wanted to lose. But you were determined - determined to make Paige be the first to cave in from the jealousy and admit her feelings so that you two could finally drop the pretense of being just friends.

But two could play this game. You tore your eyes from where the redhead was now wiping the excess sunscreen from her fingers, heading to one of the bars at the resort the team was staying at for the Cayman Islands classic.

You took a seat, making sure to unbutton the top of your swimsuit cover-up to show your cleavage. You firmly rejected the first two guys to come up to you, knowing that Paige wouldn’t care if she saw you with them. She annoyingly knew that a man could never hold a candle to what she had to offer.

But when a blonde approached you, eyelashes fluttering and hot pink acrylic nails scraping the skin of your bicep, a slow smile spread across your face. A woman? Check. A woman who looked like Paige? Bingo.

“Can I buy you a drink?” The blonde’s smile was sharp and hungry, a stark difference to the way Paige looked at you - all softness and affection.

You leaned forward, letting your hand fall and brush her waist. “I’ll get whatever you’re having.”

The blonde studied the drink in her hands before looking up at you. “It’s sour,” she warned. “You might not like it.”

“Try me.”

Eyes glittering, the blonde laced her fingers through your hair and titled your chin up. She brought the rim of her glsss to your lips, pouring a small amount of liquid into your mouth. You licked the residue off your lips, but a small drop of whatever alcohol it was dribbled down your chin. The blonde’s eyes flickered down, tracing the path of the drop, and she leaned in, her mouth dangerously close to your jawline, before you felt an arm wrap around your waist and pull you back.

“Excuse me.” You didn’t have to turn around to know who the voice belonged to. “She’s mine.”

Scoffing, the blonde looked at you with disgust when you didn’t protest, and she quickly left. You smirked to yourself, but it soon faded when Paige flipped you around, pressing you against the wall.

“Having fun?” she said, her voice low and eerily calm. The look in her eyes was cold.

You let your finger trace its way down her cheek, across the slope of her nose and grazing her bottom lip. “So much fun,” you breathed.

Paige’s jaw flexed. “You’re being a brat.”

You looked up at Paige through your lashes, faux innocence and everything. “Am I?”

Paige let go of your hips. Taking a step back, she ran a hand through her already frazzled hair and looked away. You sighed, knowing that Paige still wasn’t ready to actually do anything. So you left, making sure to knock her shoulder as you walked past. “You’re not winning,” you whispered, delighting in how her body tensed up from those words.

The rest of the day was a battle. Paige would buy a girl a drink, letting her mouth brush against their ears as she spoke to them. You hated how short they were, how they looked up to Paige with admiring eyes, asking her about her games and fangirling over how she scored 20 points just yesterday night. You hated the way their gaze followed the muscles in Paige’s arms as they flexed - something so subtle you wouldn’t have been able to notice had you not been in the same position millions of times before.

But most of all, you hated how in the end, Paige was always respectful towards them, letting her hands stay in appropriate places and backing up whenever they tried to grind against her. It was a reminder that she knew she belonged to you, but was still too pussy to do anything about it.

Yet, thirsty for revenge, throughout the day you’d go back out in the sun and purposefully situate yourself near a pretty girl, flattening out your towel and laying lazily on it, not bothering to cover up a single inch of skin as the girl’s eyes inevitably roamed. Or you’d join Aubrey and KK at the shack, letting them feed you fruit with their hands as they cackled over the death glares Paige would be sending your way.

The final straw for Paige came at the end of the night. When you heard the blonde from earlier offering body shots, you immediately joined. “Stomach or chest?” The blonde whispered sensually, letting her breath tickle your cheek. You smirked, knowing the option that would piss Paige off more.

Taking the shot from the blonde’s hand, you let your fingers linger over hers before downing the vodka. As soon as you hovered over her, though, preparing to lick the salt off the swell of her boob, fingers hooked around the loops of your jean shorts and pulled you back.

“Okay,” Paige murmured into your ear, her voice rough and strained. “You win.”

You leaned back into the warmth of her touch. “I win?” You rolled your hips against her, smirking when her breath hitched and her fingers dug even harder into your skin.

“For now,” she countered, starting to trail warm kisses down your neck. “But you won’t be saying that later.”

#paige bueckers #uconnwbb #paige bueckers x reader #wcbb #friends to lovers #jealousy #paige bueckers x you

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inkykeiji · 1 year ago

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character: shigaraki tomura x fem!reader warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, dry humping, rough messy kisses, tomura is a meanie words: 1.3k

just been daydreaming about kissing tomura’s scars and leave the prettiest, sparkliest smears of pink lip gloss along his neck and collarbone ♡ and how much he supposedly ‘hates’ it ♡

“i told you to stop doing this,” his voice vibrates against your lips, head tilting further back, allowing you more room to work. “you’re making a fucking mess.”

“m’sorry,” you murmur into the curve of his shoulder, not seeming apologetic in the slightest, planting another kiss, hard and puckered and full of purpose, to the protruding bones. “can’t help it.”

“b-bitch,” he keens out, curse fading to a gasp on his tongue.

giggling, you string another garland of pecks along the curve of his neck to the hinge of his jaw, then across the defined edge, leaving smears of pretty pink lip gloss.

it’s real cute, you think, the way he acts as if he doesn’t love it, grumbles about how sticky it is, how it clumps his hair together and dries all hard and shimmery, but secretly he loves finding remnants of glitter—of you—all over him; his fingertips, his collarbone, his lips, his hair, his eyelashes; tiny sparkling reminders that you were there, that you’ve staked your claim, leaving a galaxy of constellations across his body that bear your name.

he acts as if it’s such a nuisance, as if he doesn’t adore the way your lips paint his fresh gouges, new gashes, in the prettiest shimmers of you; your gloss, your drool, your scent—notes that linger far after you’re gone, notes that seep into his skin, that produce phantom tingles of longing when he’s laying alone in the middle of the night, warm and wiggling beneath his flesh.

he acts as if he doesn’t find it breathtakingly beautiful, the way his self-inflicted scars glimmer, the worst part of himself made pretty by you.

he acts as if if it doesn’t make his cock twitch in his jeans—even though you know it does, even though he knows you know it does, indicated by your girlish giggles as you bounce a little in his lap and lick another fat strip of saliva up the column of his neck, tongue tracing over that prominent adam’s apple that trembles with a growl or throbs with a thick swallow, to punctuate the lick with a sticky, gloss saturated kiss, right beneath his chin.

he acts like this for as long as he can stand it, for as long as his soul will allow it, until he physically can’t take it anymore, the clawing at his chest and in his veins too much to bear, large hands curling around your hips and squeezing, hard, holding you in place as he ruts up into your clothed core, movements sloppy and uneven.

there’s no finesse to it, no set rhythm or pace, hips bucking wildly as he compels you to stay put, damn it, the demand spit out in a ragged whine.

his mouth clashes against your own in a crude imitation of a kiss, sucking your lips into his mouth with enough force to yank a yelp from your chest.

sharp teeth scrape your upper lip and the underside of your nose, leaving raised, raw little abrasions in their wake as they gnaw on your mouth, bottom row grating over your chin and dragging up, harvesting fat globs of the sticky substance behind their sawtoothed edges.

muffled moans soak into your flesh, pitchy and splintered to bits by heavy pants as he restlessly scours your mouth, scrubs it near clean, teeth depositing clots of gloss onto his tongue.

it hurts, the constant rubbing of his teeth leaving your skin chafed and bloodied, but he doesn’t fucking care, greedily swallowing down your resounding squeals and cries, starved for any bit of you he can devour.

it hurts, but you don’t discourage it, instead twining your arms around his neck, fingers pushing into the fluffy tufts curling up at the base of his skull.

“uh, fuck,” he whines, voice grit and gravel, mouth mashed against your own.

his tongue unfurls to lap at your lips, now glazed with a watery crimson, desperate to slurp every last ounce of gloss from your swollen mouth. it flattens against your face, slick muscle laving in hard, repetitive motions back and forth, back and forth, gathering the remnants of make-up and coating his tongue and his teeth in the tacky glitter, tainted with the taste of copper.

those little whimpers and mewls have morphed into grunts and groans, shoved from his throat into yours as his tongue finally enters your mouth, now satisfied with having sucked the first layer of skin from your lips.

it’s all so fucking messy, drool weeping from the corners of your conjoined mouths and leaving sticky streaks across your jaws and chins, edges of your teeth clacking together as your tongues tangle and brush and massage one another, slick and slippery as they push and curl.

his pleasure is hot and heavy on your tongue, little jolts surging through your skin with each sound huffed out in time with the irregular rocking of his hips.

his cock is so hard, straining painfully against his jeans, throbbing as if it’s desperate to burrow through the thick denim to your cunt, but tomura won’t let it get that far—tomura can’t.

because tomura needs to cum now, tomura doesn’t have the time to wait, tomura doesn’t have a goddamn second to waste, fucking into you through layers of fabric, thankful you’re in a skirt, thankful your panties are so fucking slutty, made of lace so thin, so delicate it’s barely a barrier at all.

if he concentrates hard enough, he swears he can feel your hole, empty and yearning, clenching with every stroke of his cock over your clit.

it’s almost enough to make him cum right there.

bony fingers flex on your waist, unsure if they want to stop your movements or speed them up, blunt nails gouging dark, deep crescents into your skin.

you make the decision for him, pace quickening as you grind down on his cock—come on, tomu, come on, tomu—and he mewls again, something high and pitchy and dense in your mouth, hips jerking up in response.

his forehead knocks against your own, hard enough to make you wince, pain searing through your temples. your noses nudge together, clumsy and inept with the haphazard rolling of his hips, steadily accelerating with each rut against you, desperate to match the pace you’ve set, to exceed the pace you’ve set. the fingers tangled at the back of his skull push further into his hair, fingertips pressing into his scalp in lopsided little circles, evoking another low moan as he shoves his head harder against yours, desperate to give you more room to work.

he’s getting close now, hands tightening as they force you to move even faster, thighs tensing as the pressure in his tummy builds higher and higher, heavier and heavier with each of your motions, hips stuttering as they fall out of tempo again, overwhelmed by the pleasure.

“fuck, f-fuck,” the curse fractures in his throat, eyes shut so tight they crinkle at the corners, breath exhaled in harsh tatters out his nose. “i—i’m gonna—”

“do it,” you nearly beg in a stringy whine. “ruin your jeans for me.”

“oh, christ,” he chokes on a sob, another three gyrations of your hips and then he’s obeying, cock pulsing almost violently and filling his pants with hot, thick cum—so much, too much, way too much that it starts oozing through the denim in viscous, ropy dollops to smear across your inner thighs, the coating pretty and pearly glazing over your skin.

leaning back, you look down, spreading your thighs a little further to examine the damage, tensing and tilting the muscles to fawn at the way his cum shimmers in the dim light.

“now who’s the one making a mess?” you tease with a giggle, gazing at him through your lashes, and he rolls his eyes.

“this is nothing,” he’s growling as he hoists you up, one big hand clamped around your elbow, already beginning to drag you along behind him. “i’m gonna show you what a real mess looks like.”

#shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki tomura smut #shigaraki tomura x you #shigaraki smut #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you

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idkyetxoxo · 2 months ago

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Jacaerys Velaryon - The Lioness's Webs

Summary - In a calculated game of ambition and seduction, her deft navigation of her brother's manipulative schemes to charm Prince Jacaerys, the future heir, leads her entangled in a web of power, desire, and uncertain loyalties amidst the glittering backdrop of courtly intrigue.

Pairing - Jacaerys Velaryon x Lannister reader

Warnings - Violence (barely)

Word count - 2053

Masterlist for Jacaerys • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

"Prince Jacaerys, the future heir to the Iron Throne," my brother pointed out, his grip on my arm uncomfortably tight. I winced, but he didn't release me until I forcefully pulled away, knowing a bruise would soon enough blossom beneath his fingers.

"What an incredible opportunity for him," I muttered under my breath, feeling his intense gaze drilling into me.

"Go, speak to him, charm him," he commanded, his voice cold and demanding. I suppressed a bitter laugh, knowing better than to provoke him further.

"What, the same way you tried to charm his mother at her brother's name day?" I retorted with thinly veiled sarcasm. His expression hardened into a mask of anger.

"You are a Lannister, a lioness. I trust you have enough wit to understand that becoming the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms will greatly benefit our house," he argued, his tone brooking no opposition.

"So you're willing to use your younger sister as a pawn for power?" I asked incredulously.

He smiled tightly, a chilling sight. "Precisely."

"Think of the freedom, the wealth, the power you will wield," he continued, his voice now dripping with manipulation. "Imagine the influence you will have, the decisions you can shape."

I took a steadying breath, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my chest at his callous disregard for my feelings. Instead, I focused on the potential benefits this alliance could bring, freedom from my brother's suffocating control and a position where I could assert my own influence.

"Fine, I will do what needs to be done, for the future of our house, of course," I forced out through gritted teeth.

He leaned in close, his breath hot against my ear as he whispered, "Remember what happened the last time you disappointed me. Don't make me remind you again."

The threat was clear, a shadow that hung over me, compelling me to move forward even as every instinct screamed at me to run.

His smile widened, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as his hands landed heavily on my shoulders. I fought the urge to flinch at his touch, steeling myself against the weight of his expectations.

─── ✦⋅♡⋅✦ ───

I smoothed the folds of my black and gold dress, a strategic choice, black to honour House Targaryen, with touches of gold to pay homage to my own lineage.

The neckline plunged in a daring V, the fabric draping elegantly off my shoulders, revealing the delicate curve of my collarbones. The dress was tailored to perfection, hugging every contour of my body, accentuating each curve.

Every detail was calculated, designed to catch his eye and draw him in.

As I stepped into the grand hall, the room seemed to pause. Conversations faltered, and eyes turned toward me, drawn by the magnetic pull of my presence. I could feel the weight of their gazes, curious, admiring, envious but I had eyes for only one person.

Prince Jacaerys stood near a towering column, his tall frame partly obscured. His eyes, dark and contemplative, met mine with a mixture of awe and uncertainty. Fidgeting with his wine goblet, he betrayed a shy demeanour in the way he shifted from foot to foot.

With deliberate grace, I manoeuvred through the crowd, acknowledging nobles who sought my attention with polite nods and smiles, yet never pausing long enough to engage deeply.

Each step I took was a calculated move in the dance of seduction.

From the corner of my eye, I caught my brother's disapproving glare. His impatience and warning were palpable, urging me to expedite our plan. I simply disregarded his silent commands, understanding that our strategy hinged on subtlety and timing.

Just as I was about to reach the prince, a nobleman stepped into my path. Ser Alistair Blackwood, known throughout the realm for his charm and roguish ways, bowed low and extended his hand with a flourish.

"Lady Lannister, may I have the honour of a dance?" His voice dripped with insincere charm, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

Suppressing my irritation, I smoothed a polite smile onto my lips. "Of course, Ser Alistair," I replied gracefully, taking his hand as the music swelled around us.

As we began to dance, I could feel Prince Jacaerys's eyes on us, his expression a mix of curiosity and discomfort. Perhaps this unexpected interruption could work in my favour.

Ser Alistair, emboldened by the attention, leaned in closer than propriety allowed.

"You are a vision tonight, my lady," he murmured, his warm breath tickling my ear. "Surely you must have countless suitors vying for your favour."

I chuckled softly, though my mind raced with annoyance.

"Your words are kind, Ser Alistair," I replied diplomatically, subtly trying to maintain a respectable distance. "But I am here for more than mere flattery."

As the dance continued, Ser Alistair's hand on my waist tightened possessively, his intentions becoming increasingly clear. I stole a quick glance toward the Prince, silently pleading for him to intervene.

The flicker of jealousy in his dark eyes was unmistakable, and a spark of hope ignited within me.

To my relief, he stepped forward, his usually shy demeanour overridden by a surge of determination.

"May I cut in?" His voice, though firm, carried a polite gentleness.

Ser Alistair, momentarily taken aback by the prince's assertiveness, hesitated before gracefully conceding. "Of course, my prince," he replied, releasing me with a reluctant bow and stepping aside.

I placed my hand in Jacaerys's outstretched palm, feeling a flutter of anticipation as he led me into the next dance. His grip was gentle yet sure, his posture revealing a mix of nerves and resolve.

The dance floor, once merely a stage for courtly performances, now felt like the arena where fates intertwined and decisions were made.

"You look beautiful tonight, my lady," Jacaerys murmured, his voice soft but sincere as we began to move in rhythm.

"Thank you, my Prince," I replied warmly, letting my fingers linger against his for a moment longer than necessary, subtly conveying my appreciation.

As we danced, I maintained steady eye contact, my gaze inviting and warm. I could see him struggling to find his footing, both literally and figuratively. His shyness, far from being a hindrance, added an endearing charm to his demeanour, making him appear more genuine.

"Would you like to step outside for some fresh air?" he suggested after a brief pause, his voice tentative yet hopeful.

"That sounds lovely," I agreed, as I allowed him to lead me through the ornate corridors to a secluded part of the garden.

As we stepped into the garden, the air was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine, a sweet yet almost suffocating fragrance that clung to my senses. The night air greeted us with a cool embrace, a welcome contrast to the warmth and clamour of the crowded hall.

"May I fetch you a drink?" he offered, ever the gentleman, his eyes lingering on my face.

"Please," I replied, my voice soft yet composed, giving him a warm smile.

As he walked away to fulfil my request, I stole a quick glance back at my brother. His eyes gleamed with approval, a smug smile playing on his lips. I took a deep breath, steadying myself for the pivotal moments to come.

When the prince returned with two goblets of wine, I accepted mine with a grateful nod. "Thank you, my prince," I said, my fingers brushing against his as I took the goblet.

"You're welcome," he replied, his blush deepening at our fleeting touch.

We stood amidst the tranquillity of the moonlit garden, shielded from the clamour of the celebration inside.

"It's so peaceful out here," I remarked, lifting the goblet to my lips for a sip of the wine.

"Yes, a welcome respite from all the noise," he agreed softly, his gaze lingering on me with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.

Finding a stone bench bathed in the romantic glow of lantern light, we settled down side by side. I positioned myself close enough that our knees brushed lightly, a deliberate move to strengthen the burgeoning connection between us.

As our conversation flowed in the secluded serenity of the moonlit garden, I subtly orchestrated a moment of vulnerability. I noticed a small trinket dangling from my wrist. A delicate bracelet adorned with intricate silver filigree.

With a subtle flick of my wrist, I let it slip from my fingers, the soft chime of metal meeting stone barely audible in the quiet night air.

"Oh!" I exclaimed softly, feigning surprise as the bracelet tumbled to the ground beside his feet.

Prince Jacaerys, ever the gentleman, reacted swiftly. "Allow me," he said with gentle concern, kneeling beside me to pick up the bracelet. His fingers brushed mine as he handed it back.

"Thank you, my prince," I murmured, meeting his gaze with a grateful smile. Our eyes locked for a lingering moment, the air between us charged with unspoken understanding.

"You're welcome," he replied warmly, his own smile mirroring mine as we sat in a comfortable silence.

"I've always admired your dedication to your house," I began in a hushed tone, allowing sincerity to colour my words. "It's a rare quality, especially in someone as young as you."

His gaze dropped modestly, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. "Thank you," he replied humbly. "I do my best for my family and the realm."

"And it shows," I continued, letting my hand rest lightly on his knee, a gesture both comforting and intimate. "You possess a strength and nobility that may not always be apparent to others, but I see it clearly."

His eyes met mine, reflecting a mixture of vulnerability and hope. "Do you really think so?" His voice was barely above a whisper, betraying his uncertainty.

"Absolutely," I affirmed with conviction, leaning in slightly closer. "That's why I believe you will make a great king one day. The realm needs someone with your vision and heart."

Our conversation flowed effortlessly, each word carrying a weight of intention as we navigated the dance of courtship and intrigue. Subtle touches and lingering glances punctuated our dialogue, drawing him further into the web I carefully spun.

"You're very kind," he murmured, his voice a soft admission of admiration. "And I must admit, you're also quite captivating."

"I'm glad you think so," I replied, allowing my hand to rest gently on his arm. "Because I've found myself quite taken with you as well, my prince."

His blush deepened, but he didn't shy away. Instead, he leaned closer, his eyes earnestly searching mine.

"You have a way of making me feel at ease, my lady," he confessed. "Like I can truly be myself with you."

"And you can," I assured him, my voice tender with sincerity. "I'm here to support you in any way I can."

He exhaled softly, his gaze unwavering as he absorbed my words. "I appreciate that more than you know," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Would you like to take a walk with me? I feel there's so much more I want to share with you."

"I'd love to," I replied warmly, a genuine smile lighting up my face.

Rising gracefully, he offered his arm, which I accepted with a soft smile. Together, we ventured away from the bustling hall, choosing instead the quietude of moonlit paths in the garden.

As we walked, our conversation continued in hushed tones, weaving dreams and aspirations into the tapestry of the night. Prince Jacaerys spoke of his ambitions for the realm, his hopes for peace and prosperity.

I listened attentively, offering encouragement and insights where I could, my presence a steady support.

"You have a way of making everything seem possible," he remarked, his voice tinged with admiration as we paused by a tranquil fountain.

"That's because it is," I replied softly, squeezing his arm gently. "With the right people by your side, there's nothing you can't achieve."

He turned to me then, his eyes reflecting gratitude and a growing fondness. "I'm glad you're here tonight," he confessed quietly.

"And I'm glad you are too," I replied sincerely, my voice soft with affection. "I believe we can accomplish great things together."

As we continued our stroll, the bond between us solidified with each step. I knew I had captivated him. The night had been a success, a carefully orchestrated dance of strategy and emotion.

As we eventually parted ways, a promise hung in the air. A promise of alliances formed, of futures entwined, and of a destiny waiting to unfold.

A/n - I need to start picking a different piece of jewllery to drop x

#house of the dragon #house targaryen #hotd #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #hotd one shot #hotd season 2 #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfic #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #team black #prince jacaerys #jace x reader #hotd jacaerys #jacaerys strong

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