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northopalshore · 26 days ago

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♱ Mars in the ♱

Union persona chart

Mars in the Union (1585) persona chart tells you how you will pursue your significant other when you first meet. Even if one party shows more effort into the initial courting, it's still important to note that both need to show their interests and effort into forming a relationship as well (or it wouldn't be a relationship!) That is what we'll be looking at in this post. Please check your UPC Mars sign, house & degree.

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⠀:¨ ·.· ¨:⠀

Masterlist | Union persona chart Masterlist

Foreign spouse indicators | Union predictions | Attractive Spouse Indicators

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Here are a few things to note before we get into it;

The 0° degree bares no significant meaning on its own but it does enhances (draws more attention to) whatever sign it's in or aspects that it makes.

Retrograde in this scenario can make one more reluctant to make a move, or you may second guess your efforts often, in some cases it may seem like you are avoidant at first or many things are distracting you from pursuing them

Conjuncting Sun you will do a lot to showcase your personality & best traits to them (trying to impress them with how cool you are ). Persistence is also a common theme with you.

Conjuncting Mercury a lot of your efforts may be shown online i.e texting, face time

Conjuncting Moon there may be a lot of emotional back & forth on your end, like emotional crash outs at times or overwhelming feelings, feeling divided

Square Union asteroid meeting up with them may be difficult & may require special (more) effort on your part.

It's not how your spouse will pursue you, but how you will pursue your spouse.

♱ Aries (°1,°13,°25) & The 1st House

With this placement, you are most likely the more active pursuer in this relationship. Being the one to actually go by "Don't chase, attack" (lmaoo). You can crave their attention, and always have a way to intercept yourself into their lives or plans. Tagging along to trips or something. Your whole body will show that you are interested. Trouble comes from personal problems, time management, acting without consent or planning (doing what you want instead of what your partner may want), rivalry, short temper, assuming things according to your desires, lack of patience, selfishness and ignorance.

♱ Taurus (°2,°14,°26) & The 2nd House

Okay, money is definitely something you will be using to get closer to them. You could spend money on them or to get to them (especially if they live away from you), you'll be spending money on your own expenses just to be closer to them for example. Frequenting a place they work (as a customer). Buying them gifts, making sure you look good and attractive when you're going to see them; you want your makeup or outfit to look perfect every time. Looking like a catch to get them to want you more (lol). Arguments or hardships on your end come from money (or a lack of money), stubbornness, selfishness & a sense of responsibility.

note: similar effect if aspecting venus

♱ Gemini (°3,°15,°27) & The 3rd House

Sharing your thoughts, starting conversations, non-stop talking, exploring new topics and asking what they think about it, sharing jokes & memes, asking for their opinion it's like every time you think of something randomly in the day, you'll talk about it with your partner later. This placement makes you especially curious about them; like you want to know what they're made of. You may ask them a lot of questions too or tell them a lot of things they might not know about to make you seem smart lol. Fights or frustrations stem from miscommunication, gossip, language barriers and mistrust or suspicion.

note: similar effect if aspecting mercury

♱ Cancer (°4,°16,°28) & The 4th House

Being more.. submissive in a way? Here, you will be showing them how vulnerable and flawed i.e human you are. You may allow them have some sort of personal view into your life and let them help you or guide you (letting down your walls for them). Showing them a more relaxed and needy part of yourself. You may start to have disagreements or arguments when your emotions go haywire or when you (both) let your personal feelings get the best of you i.e pettiness, emotional attachments, clinginess.

note: similar effect if aspecting moon

♱ Leo (°5,°17,°29) & The 5th House

You could rely on a lot mutual attraction and wild fun when pursuing your partner romantically. A love for the arts and physical thrills; you'll want you partner to associate you with a good time. Seggs. There could be a lot of sex aha, Ya Nasty. (Though it's not completely limited to that sort of fun, there is a natural inclination to be drawn into physical pleasure for the sake of it). If you do argue, it's likely about the things you find enjoyable, children & inflated egos.

note: similar effect if aspecting jupiter

♱ Virgo (°6,°18) & The 6th House

You guessed it. They'll be part of your routine. You may try to find ways to have them in your daily schedule, and really make an effort to get closer to them; keeping promises to meet, making plans. However, with Virgo I find that you are more cautious when pursuing your partner. You will overthink, and be more observant. You might stalk their socials as well lol. Only because you are serious about pursuing something with them. You'll show a lot of effort, and if they show it first you will make sure that it's reciprocated. You reassure your partner, and that's usually what they notice most about you when "pursuing" them! If arguments occur, they will usually be centered around your work i.e having no time to be with them, conflicting schedules.

note: similar effect if aspecting saturn

♱ Libra (°7,°19) & The 7th House

You will charm your partner with your down to earth, high morality, well mannerisms, fairness and poised argumentative qualities. You will always make sure you look good around them, and may keep a certain look (*cough Flyn Rider-esque) that you are sure will knock them straight outta the park. You may also prefer to take them out on traditionally aesthetic but also thought provoking dates often ; movies, museum & galleries. The key for you is debating. What you may argue (or what causes tension) comes from the topic of your debates itself, work or professionalism or marriage & commitment (the idea of it).

note: similar effect if aspecting Venus

♱ Scorpio (°8,°20) & The 8th House

You might be taking a lot of risks for them, or doing something you aren't supposed to just to get closer to your (FS/this ) partner. Illicit affairs, secret rendezvous, disobedience ( going against someone's wishes to be with them) or even meeting up somewhere without telling anyone often. Something about it is quite scandalous. If fights occur, it will be related to jealousy, exes, trauma & petty rivalry (either between the both of you or with someone else).

note: similar effect if aspecting pluto

♱ Sagittarius (°9,°21) & The 9th House

In order to woo your partner, you will likely be taking them out to interesting places that are fun, spontaneous and are able to showcase your intelligence, optimism and reliability. You'll likely be doing a lot to impress them with your broad mindset and talents. You'll want to show your partner that you are both a do-er & a thinker. Perhaps you have many capable qualities that you wish to share with them to make 'em like you more. In terms of arguments that you may face or obstacles it's likely going to be related to your studies, language, passport, citizenship or some sort of seniority (one being older or of a higher status than the other).

note: similar effect if aspecting mercury

♱ Capricorn (°10,°22) & The 10th House

As a means to keep your partners attention on you, you may show them how reliable, stable and useful you are. You could show them a lot of (new) things or take the lead / control when you get together; being the person they can rely on. You could do things for them, purchase things for them or be the one to help them make decisions . Your career, father, control issues or public image may cause friction in your relationship and you may argue or feel reluctant due to it.

note: similar effect if aspecting saturn

♱ Aquarius (°11,°23) & The 11th House

You'll be letting them into your social circle, getting to know their friends and also hanging out with them. Showing them something new. You believe the way to their heart is to know them as a person. You'll enjoy a lot of interesting conversations, calling them, texting them and just hanging out. You'll show them how different you are compared to the people they've dated before for example. Showing them how smart, quirky, fun & genuine you can be. Arguments stem from selfishness, freedom, time spent with friends, erratic feelings, comparison, lack of compassion & disingenuousness.

note: similar effect if aspecting uranus

♱ Pisces (°12,°24) & The 12th House

You might travel to your partner a lot, being the one to come to them or invite them over to you. I find that with this placement, you will do a lot just to be able to be around them or closer to them; sacrificing anything that needs to be sacrificed i.e money, time, energy (usually energy). You'll try your best with this placement. In a way, you want to appear "cool" to them, but on a slower pace compared to Leo. Arguments, frustrations come from misunderstandings, illusions, fears, something being hidden from you, long distance, being ignored or left on read.

note: similar effect if aspecting neptune

support?

Thank you for reading, hope this helps ʕ⁠´⁠•⁠ᴥ⁠•⁠`⁠ʔ♡

@northopalshore

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vodkassassin · 11 months ago

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VILLAIN LAWYER TIM DRAKE

listen listen to me everyone sit down and listen

Bruce and Dick keep nagging Tim about how he dropped out of high school despite the fact he’s successfully topping the charts as the youngest CEO in the history of forever of a Forbes top 3 company, so he gets his GED and secretly goes to college and then passes the bar exam to become a lawyer, like how Daredevil from MARVEL is a lawyer for heroes. Except instead of heroes Tim is a VILLAIN lawyer and he’s VERY GOOD at his job.

He loves when Bruce Wayne has to attend a court session bc the defendant villain destroyed 47 million dollars worth of Wayne Co owned infrastructure, and Tim is at the stand successfully bringing the debt amount down. Every dollar off, Bruce looks more Tired and Defeated and it fuel’s Tim’s energy more than any coffee brand ever could.

Also Tim is in the perfect position to work hand in hand with the Goonion. He does pro bono work for them. He has an entire Goonion-partnered campaign just to steal workforce from the Joker.

Slogan: “Why work for the Joker when your chances of him killing you are worse than Two-Face’s 50/50? Riddler has life insurance policies and dental! Red Hood has life insurance policies, health and dental, and a solid PTO plan! Don’t work for a clown 🤡 who’s just gonna screw you over 😔 Gothamites are smarter than that!”

#Tim drake #he is fueled by spite #Bruce should have figured that out before he poked the sleeping dragon #Batfamily #Batman #lol

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lookingforuravity · 3 months ago

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구원

word count: 2,297

ft. kageyama, tsukishima, akaashi, suna, kuroo, & iwaizumi

IN WHICH you experience your first kiss w/ haikyuu boys

small a/n: this is pretty old i posted this on my old account (that's now deleted) so i might re-upload some of my fics <3

KAGEYAMA TOBIO

▪︎ kageyama would be so awkward.

▪︎ i feel like he'd be the type of person to put so much thought into it to make sure it's absolutely perfect and make it somewhat unforgettable. he's a very determined person, on and off court, so i think he'd approach the first kiss in the same manner.

▪︎ but then again, he's awkward. the days he spent planning to get it right going to complete waste due to his nerves, and he's barely able to mutter out a complete sentence.

the sun set long ago, and the sound of cicadas and screeching of sneakers from inside the gym were the noises y/n heard. it was almost a daily routine for the freshly new couple to walk home together. y/n would wait outside with a couple of snacks for the both of them, he'd take his share and walk them home while occasionally rubbing his hand against their own, then they'd go their separate ways for the night.

usually they'd engage in a casual conversation discussing their day, but kageyama had been oddly silent throughout most of the walk. “are you okay?” they questioned after a long time of awkward silence. kageyama simply nodded while continuing to look at his feet as they walked. y/n thought maybe he was stressed about practice or an upcoming tournament, his face looked like he was going to hurl.

they finally arrived at y/n's residence and turned to face each other to say their final goodbyes for the night, but kageyama still couldn't keep eye contact. he fiddled with his hands as his eyes darted everywhere but them. “are you sure you're okay?” they questioned again, a look of pure concern now stitched onto their face. kageyama had spent days planning this, weeks even, but now that the moment has come every detail of his well-prepared plan slipped his mind.

all he could think of was just how beautiful y/n looked with the shine of the moonlight slightly glistening on them.

“i- uh..” he started, but anything he wanted to say couldn't leave his mouth. deciding not to waste anymore time, kageyama grabs onto their shoulders and pulls them in, pressing his lips on the soft plush of theirs. he didn't even give them a second to respond before pulling away and running his way back home, leaving y/n in a utter state of shock.

“.. i'll see you tomorrow?!” she yelled. but it didn't seem to reach the ears of the raven-haired boy who'd already turned the corner.

TSUKISHIMA KEI

▪︎ tsukishima would attempt, keyword: attempt, to be nonchalant about it… but the blush on his face says otherwise!

▪︎ tsukki is known for being relatively emotionally distant and tends to use sarcastic humor as a way to hide it. (?)

▪︎ i think that'd he would use this humor during the kiss to deter away from the fact that he's showing his more soft/vulnerable side.

“oi, pay attention,” tsukishima teased as he lightly tapped y/n's head with the pen he held in his hand. “the answer is practically right in front of you.” the two sat on the floor of tsukishima's bedroom, studying for an upcoming exam in the subject y/n struggled in the most: math.

y/n groaned and leaned all the way back until their back hit the floor, running their hands all over their face is agony. “i hate this! i don't wanna do it anymore!” they complained once more for what tsukishima felt was the hundredth time. he rolled his eyes at his partner's behavior, grabbing their hand and lifting them to make them sit back up.

“it's not that bad, you're just not trying.” he retorted. y/n pouted at their boyfriend's words and slouched as he continued to go on and on about the lesson in front of them. but as he kept talking, the sound of his words were completely drowned out and all they could think about was how pretty he looked right now.

he was wearing a hoodie (that y/n finally returned to him), sweatpants, and talking about whatever blah blah blah nonsense he was saying. they always did find intelligent men attractive. the thought was sudden, but now that they thought about kissing him, it wouldn't leave their mind.

tsukishima was still distracted from explaining the lesson to them to notice that they were crawling towards him until he felt a hand touch his cheek. he looked up with a raised brow, and before he could even react y/n was pressing their lips against his.

tsukishima stared at them almost wide-eyed after they pulled away. “tuh, what was that?” he muttered before looking down at the papers sprawled on the ground. it may have sounded like he didn't care, but the redness on his face and the tips of his ears gave it away.

AKAASHI KEIJI

▪︎ the calmest of them all honestly. (internally freaking out though)

▪︎ i don't think he'd pre-plan like kageyama, but he would choose the perfect setting and it'd turn out amazingly. i think he'd be the type of partner to read his s/o's body language perfectly.

▪︎ akaashi would make it a comfortable situation for both him and his partner while never being too brash nor too nervous.

the serene, dimly lit surrounding followed by the soft blue hue of the water provided for an instant relaxation upon y/n and akaashi. the two walked hand in hand as they explored the aquarium, looking at all the cute fishies and rest of the sea animals. y/n always had a keen interest in these type of exhibits. the ocean was always intriguing to them and they made this well known.

akaashi took this opportunity to bring them to a nice aquarium in tokyo. it was small, but that didn't matter. akaashi was okay with anything as long as they were there too. “are you having fun?” he asked them softly. their eyes were practically stars as they continued to observe every corner of the aquarium, and he couldn't fight the small smile that stretched onto his face.

his question goes unheard as y/n takes in the view of everything, running to the fish eye tank she spotted feets away. akaashi chuckled slightly as he followed closely behind them and eventually taking a seat beside them. “it's pretty, isn't it?” they murmured as they stared off into the tank, but akaashi's eyes never left their figure. “it's gorgeous.”

y/n turned to face him, and his cerulean eyes bore into theirs as he gazed at them lovingly. “what?” they asked. but akaashi said nothing and shook his head. he softly cupped their face and pulled them in as he leaned in to meet in a kiss. it was tender and slow but it was enough to show how much akaashi truly cared for them.

SUNA RINTARŌ

▪︎ another one that is extremely calm.

▪︎ similar to akaashi, i don't think he'd pre-plan. however, he'd do it more spontaneously. maybe his body reacts before his mind does while he presses his lips against yours.

▪︎ i think he'd also tease similarly to tsukishima, but a bit more dialed down.

suna crashed onto his bed as he kicked his shoes off and rested his forearm on his forehead, y/n also kicking off their shoes and crashing next to him. the pair had an extremely long and tiring day at school, and a nap was very much needed. they both turned on their sides to face each other, their eyes threatening to close.

“i'm so tired..” y/n mumbled. suna couldn't even utter a sentence, he simply nodded while his blinks slowly got longer and longer. he grabbed y/n by the waist and pulled them into his chest, tucking his face away in the crook of their neck. his hold on them tightens as he feels their small exhales on his neck. “so am i.” he finally spoke.

suna and y/n would always take naps together. but today was different. the stress suna had from volleyball practice and the one y/n had from studies, the two could go into hibernation right now and not wake up for months if they could. but it was impossible, so for now they just enjoyed the warm embrace of one another.

they both stretched and entangled their limbs together as they got ready to take a nap. y/n closed their eyes and was on the verge of slipping into slumber before they felt a small press against their lips. opening their eyes abruptly, they see suna staring back at them with a sly smirk on his face. “.. what was that?” they uttered with their eyebrows furrowed in disbelief.

“a kiss silly,” suna teased. “you looked so cute i couldn't help myself.” the two just stared at each other, blinking slowly waiting for the other to say something. “why?” they asked confused. it was such a random place to have their first kiss. but suna simply shrugged. “i don't know.” he answered.

“..wanna do it again?”

“sure.”

IWAIZUMI HAJIME

▪︎ this man will be straight up and not hesitate.

▪︎ i think iwa would be more abrupt. like you guys would just be talking and all of a sudden he's smashing his lips onto yours. he wouldn't doing it harshly though. in a very firm but gentle way.

▪︎ he'd do it based on his gus instinct. if he felt that it was the right place and time to have your guys’ first kiss, then it's right.

(pretend they won to go to nationals lol)

the gymnasium boomed with thunderous cheers and claps as the final blow of the whistle sounded. aoba johsai had made it to nationals. as the team came to embrace each other on the court, iwaizumi scanned the crowd, looking for that one familiar face. as they made eye contact, he could see y/n standing there looking down at him with a bright smile on their face as they screamed joyously.

5 minutes later, the team exits through the doors of the gym to the hallway, and iwazumi is met with the sight of his partner standing right in front of him with open arms. he rushed over to them, grabbing them by their thighs and lifting them in the air as y/n squealed in surprise. “i'm so proud of you!” they praised.

iwaizumi put them down and hugged them tightly while breathing heavily, still out of breath from the intense match not long ago. his face was tucked securely into the crook of their neck as he swayed them both side to side. “thank you.” he murmured into the skin. y/n couldn't fight the tears welling up in their eyes as the amount of pride they held in their boyfriend was too much.

but before they could react, iwaizumi was pulling away and smashing his lips into theirs, y/n letting out a surprised squeal before melting away in the kiss. his calloused hands caressed their face as he poured all of his passion into it.

KUROO TETSURŌ

▪︎ he would be extremely confident during the first kiss.

▪︎ kuroo is calculated. this helps with his self-assurance and the way he initiates/reacts during the kiss. he would start off by lightly teasing his partner before initiating the kiss.

▪︎ he is also highly observant, and is able to read his s/o's body language in the same way akaashi does.

a first date at the science museum seemed like an odd pick. but for kuroo and y/n there couldn't be anything more perfect. as the two walk hand in hand, they both drag each other to different parts of the exhibit and list off random facts that weren't listed on the descriptions.

“it's fascinating, isn't it?” kuroo said. he was intrigued with the 3D model of kinetic energy that was presented in front of him. y/n couldn't help but admire how eager their boyfriend was. both of them had an interest in science, but kuroo's beat hers by a long shot.

they couldn't help but trail their eyes over his face, taking in the smaller details. like the wrinkles in the corner of his eyes, the way his eyes sparkled when he was doing something he liked, everything was admirable. and his lips slightly glistened and they couldn't help but wonder what his lips would feel like on theirs.

kuroo noticed this, of course. how could he not? he couldn't ignore the feeling of their eyes on the side of his face and the way they'd fiddle with their fingers as they continued to observe every inch of his face except for the views in front of them. if it was anyone else, he would've been annoyed. but y/n? he found it endearing. kuroo turned to her and chuckled as they tensed when he caught them staring. “do you want to kiss me?” he asked abruptly, teasing them softly.

their eyes widen as their muscles tense up, stuttering out mutters explaining how they weren't staring but kuroo didn't buy it. he continued to tease them as he stepped closer, grabbing the back of their softly without them even noticing. kuroo connected their lips, blurring out their surroundings. in his mind, it was just him and his lover sharing their first of many more.

©lookingforuravity 2024 | please do not copy, translate, or repost my work onto other

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #kageyama tobio #kageyama x reader #tsukishima x reader #suna x reader #iwaizumi x reader #akaashi keiji #akaashi x reader #kuroo x reader #haikyu x reader #haikyu fluff #rea writes !

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thekinslayed · 5 months ago

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Finally A Targaryen

summary | The nature of your marriage with Aemond is shaken when you are caught kissing the gardener.

pairing | modern!aemond targaryen x wife!reader

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI!, unprotected sex, exhibitionism, voyeurism, semi-arranged marriage, neglected wife, infidelity (it's one kiss lol), reader's into sweaty guys ?, jealousy, possessive aem, mention of drug use

wordcount | 3.5k

note | whoever can guess which satc episode this is based on gets a cookie and a kiss on the forehead... <3

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

The cicadas buzzed in the late midsummer haze, holding your hand as you wandered the gardens of Dragonstone Manor all alone. Your husband was on the tennis court with his brothers, as he always was most afternoons you’ve spent in his family home. Not that he cared much for what you busied yourself with, but you were sure to face the disapproving sharpness in his eye when he found out you were once again missing from the aperitif his mother was having on the veranda with the other ladies. Alicent was sweet, but gods, you couldn’t stand sitting through another bout of her re-telling of Targaryen history despite being married into the dragon’s den herself. You have heard more than enough of dragon lore, medieval inbreeding, and the many Aegons, including the current one who snuck bumps of snow before each family meal to keep his sanity. If you were any less careful, you would’ve given in to his invitation long ago and huddled next to him in the powder room sink for a line.

These people were rich, that was to be sure, of insurmountable wealth well before democracy had even been established. Your family, on the other hand, was new money. Your father had struck gold when he made his way up the corporate ladder of his real estate firm during his tenure, making himself the top dog with a key to a 12th-floor office and another to the secret world of the rich.

It was how you met Aemond.

Walking through the step stones across the manicured gardens, you couldn’t help but sigh at the memory of your life before him. He had been so sweet at first, lovely enough that you couldn’t deny the inevitable push of fate into his arms. What a fool you had been, too starry-eyed over that unmistakable silver hair and the smooth timbre of his voice to realize it was not fate at all but the expert machinations of Otto Hightower and his desire to add your father’s firm to Valyria Corp.’s extensive belt of partners. Your friends warned you a million times— the perfect man didn’t exist. Your heart used to beat a little faster with every man who held the slightest potential of being the one, thinking him perfect until he wasn’t. Now your husband, he was just… there. Courteous enough to see you well taken care of but out of your reach when it really mattered.

Love was a fallacy in this world. Who needs love when you can have so much more with enough power and money? Loyalty was an even bigger farce. Marriage simply served as a means for business, you’ve seen it now. It was no wonder that Helaena seemed more than happy to be without her husband, Cregan, on this summer getaway. Wolves don’t do well in the southern sun, she simply said when you asked about him, apparently stuck to his father’s firm in his hometown of Winterfell. Aegon and his wife, Mirella Lannister, were no image of a devoted marriage either, both were consistently caught with other big names by the press. They seemed to get along well, however, if the loud thumping from down the hall nightly was anything to go by.

Heavily occupied in your thoughts, you reached the edge of the multi-acre plot without realizing it. The estate overlooked a quiet river on the back end, though surrounded by an impressive topiary for privacy, with rose bushes littered all around. There was always something to work on in Dragonstone, always a leaf out of shape for the gardeners to trim and keep them busy.

One of them took care of the roses. Young, strawberry-blond curls, and a well-built physique that glimmered with sweat under the blistering sun. Danny, you heard them call him. He was pretty, not in the sleek, highly tailored way that Aemond was, but his rugged edges held a charm that made any simple girl blush. You’d seen him throughout your stay, always so diligent at work in the gardens every time you spotted him on your walks. He would greet you with a respectful, dimpled smile as he asked about your day, and it would take effort to keep your composure as he wiped the sweat off his brow with the edge of his shirt.

There was no harm in it. You were simply… admiring. Just because you were now a married woman didn’t mean you couldn’t appreciate a fine-looking man when you saw him, it was objective. His arms were nicely rounded with definition, as was his back, muscles ripping beneath his damp tank. You wondered what else those hands could do, perhaps he could plow something else, something left neglected and wanting…

“Afternoon, ma’am.”

You jumped at the sudden low tone, finding yourself unknowingly staring like an idiot. Danny leaned his weight on his shovel, a crooked smile on his sweaty face that made something flutter deep within you.

“Hi,” you greeted awkwardly, cheeks warming up like a sudden heat wave had blazed the area.

“All on your own again, ma’am?” he queried, naturally resuming his work while giving you his attention. You tried to play it cool by leaning on the tree right by him, though fidgeting with the sparkling stone on your ring finger. Shit, he wasn’t catching onto you, is he? What an embarrassment that would be, the boss’ new wife sneaking around for the gardener’s attention.

“Yes, just needed some air,” you responded as casually as you could, and Danny nodded in understanding.

“That house can get stuffy, doesn’t it? As big as it is, nobody ever wants to stay there for long,” he said, slightly panting as he worked on the soil. Closer than you had been, you could smell him from where you stood. He had such an intoxicating scent about him, a mixture of sweat, musk, and something else you couldn’t put your finger on. It made you dizzy with a newfound heat. You wanted more of it. You wanted a taste of the salty tang of his sweat on your tongue against his hot skin.

What were you doing? You’re married! Okay, perhaps your sex life had become a little pedantic compared to when you were still on the market, but you had made a vow!

“I’m still getting to know my way around it, I’ll admit,” you chuckled. Danny’s smile widened at the sound, grabbing his shears to snip off a blooming rose and offering you a stem. “Oh! How pretty,” you smiled up at him, pressing the soft petals to your nose to inhale the sweet scent.

“Forgive me, madam, for being too forward, but this doesn’t seem like your type of crowd,” he said, taking a bold step closer. Your brows slightly dipped in confusion, head tilting in question.

“What makes you say that?” you asked.

“You’re not like the rest of them rich folks. To anyone else, I’d be invisible.”

You looked up at Danny, words lost on your lips. You weren’t so different from him, both outsiders in the impenetrable world of the elite. The transition had not been so easy, not with a husband who felt like a stranger and a family who barely tolerated each other. It all overwhelmed you, and to be seen by a man like Danny…

You didn’t know what had gotten into you, but the next thing you knew, you were grabbing the collar of his shirt and smashing your lips against his from the overwhelming blossom in your tummy. He tasted salty and sweet, of hard work and grit. You were hungry, as was he, tongues dancing and gliding as he pressed you against the aged oak.

Dinner was long, and cocktail hour even longer. Aegon and Aemond were bickering about who won the last round of tennis despite the youngest Daeron keeping score. You were nursing a pinot grigio as the conversation shifted to circle around the events of everyone else’s afternoon— Helaena and her new cradle of newly hatched creepy crawlies, Alicent’s ever-growing ire with the new neighbors and the scandal they brought with them. The lady of the house seemed to know everything, from the happenings in the staff room to whatever lay beyond the vines crawling to the next house over. What went around this place came back around the sitting room. The dry sweetness of the wine coated your tongue with every sip as you listened on quietly, mind still stuck in the gardens, under the grand oak with a certain warm blonde. Your lips still carried the salt of his sweat despite the rich lamb you had for supper. It was sinful, a taste of another man on your tongue while your husband sat on the opposite end of the couch.

“I’ve had quite the day myself,” Mirella spoke up, sharp blue eyes sweeping across the room. “I took a nice long swim in the morning, then I took a walk in the gardens in the afternoon—”

“Went hunting for your next feed?” Aemond snickered, earning a sarcastic smile from the lioness.

“Mh, yes, and after that I saw your lovely little wife kissing the gardener!”

The heat rushed to your face at once, eyes widening as Mirella’s jaw dropped in mock surprise. You ducked your head in utter humiliation, awaiting the flurry of gasps of disbelief coming your way. It was silent, which seemed to be worse. The only sound was the chiming of the grand clock at the turn of the hour, broken by the sudden shrill of Aegon’s cackle.

You looked up at your in-law’s faces, finding little shock in their features but rather amusement, especially so from your husband’s mother. Though you didn’t dare to look in your husband’s direction, who suddenly turned rigid at the news.

“Well, my dear, you are now finally a Targaryen,” she quipped, surprisingly nonchalant as she lifted her glass to be topped up. Your eyes flickered to Criston Cole, her closest personnel, who poured her wine in a flash, and everything started to click.

It was bizarre. Publicly outed in front of your in-laws yet met with no repercussions. In fact, it seemed you were now more welcome after such news. It should please you, make you feel closer to your new family, but Aemond was now colder than ever. When he was once mindful of getting you drinks at cocktail hour or making sure you were pleased with the garden access you had from the room you were staying in, he now actively avoided being alone with you. He indulged his brother in staying well past the appropriate hour and drank, sneaking back to your shared room only when you were asleep. It made things harder when neither one of you wanted to move into one of the spare rooms lest they wished to face his mother’s incessant prodding, the tail end of your summer turned into a sudden dance around not having to face each other.

This was your life now, perhaps. An irreparable marriage. A distant husband. So much for the fairytale romance you prayed the gods for.

With avoiding your husband came a shift in the daily routine you had established in Dragonstone Manor. You would usually be awake the moment you felt Aemond shift around to start the morning, the light sleeper that you were, but now you’ve taken to feign sleep until he left the room. Your arrival to breakfast would come a few minutes later than his, all nicely covered up with a smile towards the lady of the house.

On a particularly balmy morning, you took a nice jog around the property, narrowly avoiding your spouse, who was on his way to the steam room. You worked up a decent sweat, swiftly jumping into the shower right before breakfast. You took your time, thinking yourself wise, if you managed to avoid facing the family altogether. It was tiresome to keep up the persona you held in front of them. In some ways, you were glad you were getting more time to yourself with Aemond’s avoidance, a brief reprieve to drop your mask and loosen the tension in your shoulders.

Your little bubble of isolation burst when you found the man himself in the room when you exited the shower. You let out a small gasp in surprise, tightening your hold on the towel wrapped around your form when he turned to face you. It seemed your husband had been caught guard as well, the unmasked look of surprise on his handsome face at the sight of your undress. He composed himself in a blink, clearing his throat before turning to leave the room and shower in the other guest room instead.

“Are we never to speak anymore?” you spoke up, unable to stop the words from escaping your lips. Aemond stopped in his step, one hand on the doorknob and the other clutching the towel swung over his bare shoulder.

“Is that how you want it?” he responded. You scoffed at his indifference, ire starting to grow restless in the state of your marriage.

“Of course not,” you refuted. “But we have been living separate lives despite the fact you and I are married. I know you’re mad at me, husband.”

Aemond was silent for a long minute, and it made your heart thump loudly you feared he would hear it. He turned to face you, his gaze dark and sharp like a dragon provoked.

“You think it amuses me to hear my wife was kissing the fucking gardener, hm? In my own home, no less,” he said, his words slow and deep like a slithering snake. It should have you more scared than you were if it weren’t for the fiery frustration that made you bare your teeth back.

“I didn’t expect you to be bothered so much, seeing that seems to be the way all marriages work in this world,” you muttered, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

“What did you say?” he snapped.

“You don’t care about me, Aemond. There’s no need to start pretending now,” you said, keeping your chin lifted high as your husband approached with a menacing glint in his eye.

“You carry my name. I would not have my wife acting like some harlot,” he seethed, pointing an accusing finger in your face. If you had the courage, you would have slapped his hand away and perhaps another across his cheek for thinking so low of you. He had quite the gull to blame it all on you, not when he had kept his own wife an outsider.

“Titles alone don't mean much. Haven’t we already established that?” you pointed out, turning to head to the closet when your husband grabbed you by the elbow to pull you back around.

“Perhaps I should make my point clearer.” You were barely spared a moment to retort when Aemond’s lips smashed straight into yours, claiming in a bruising kiss. He tasted different than Danny, an addicting mix of tobacco and mint that kept you wanting more. His strong hands pulled you flush to his chest, the towel slowly slipping off from your bare body. You grounded yourself by gripping his shoulders, warm and damp from the steam room.

He was all over you before you could gather your bearings. All the times you both had spent in the bedroom were respectful, mild even, but never like this. He had flung the towel off your body in one swipe, leaving you bare in front of him. You crossed your arms to cover yourself, but his firm grip kept you uncovered.

“Don’t be so shy now, it’s just me,” he smirked before dipping to capture your pert nipple into his mouth. Your sounds were shy, though growing in courage as your husband sucked on your tit and fondled the other. His large, warm palms explored every inch of your bareness, squeezing with a firmness that left your skin tingling. When he switched his attention to your other breast, his fingers slithered their way to your heart, trespassing your folds despite your attempt to squeeze them shut. “For a woman who hates being my wife, you sure are wet for me.”

You had to blame it on the prolonged lack of satisfaction, but the way he was caressing your folds and circling your clit was breaking your resolve with ease. You grabbed his nape to pull him back to your lips, kissing him with a plea for more. Desperation growing, your hand descended his chest to his shorts, palming his growing hardness.

“Please,” you mewled, slightly pouting up at your husband.

“Please, what, love? Tell me nicely, and I might give it to you,” he teased, shallowly dipping two fingers into your cunt before swiping them back out.

“I need you, husband, please,” you pleaded, eyes starting to well up in frustration. You peppered persuading kisses all over his jaw and neck when he let your hand slip past his shorts to grab hold of his cock, hot and stiff in your smaller palm.

“Poor you,” he frowned in mocking before his lips returned to their natural state of a smirk as his fingers continued to work your dripping cunt up. Hope bloomed in your chest as he turned you around to face the bed frame, pressing on the small of your back to bend you over.

You braced your arms on the soft mattress as you waited, tuning into the rustling of his shorts being dropped. The anticipation burned in your chest, making you gasp when you felt something hot and blunt press against your folds. It swiped up and down your slit, gathering slick and teasing your pearl. It made you whine, hips wriggling back in impatience.

Behind you, your husband chuckled darkly. His warm palm ran down the length of your spine, squeezing your waist, before leaving a hard smack on your arse that lurched you forward on impact and made you yelp. Heat bloomed beneath your skin, his mark no doubt left on the imprint of his hand.

“You know what that was for, don’t you?” he asked, his voice growing gravelly with a heated desire. You nodded, obedient and pliant, as you turned your head to look at him. His eyelid was heavy as he looked down at you, his hand lazily stroking his cock. You stared at it as though you were starved, craving it like none else you had wanted before.

Aemond would think himself kind to finally end your torment. He lined up his cockhead to your hole, pressing into your walls and burying himself to the hilt in one breath. It knocked the breath out of you as your husband rocked into you with vigor, his pace bruising and unforgiving from the start. You fisted the sheets to keep your balance, tits bouncing with every harsh slam. Soon enough, your arms gave out, and your face smushed into the soft mattress while Aemond grabbed hold of your hair. He forced your head to the side, where you faced the double doors leading out to the garden, covered only by the sheer curtains. Despite the hard jolts that left your view scrambled, you could see an outline of a figure in the gardens, the light shadows of a certain head of strawberry-blonde hair unmistakable, and you wondered if he could see the precarious position you were in.

“Look, it’s your little sweetheart,” Aemond cooed, holding you up by the elbows to speak in your ear. “Why don’t you show him how well your husband fucks you, hm? Let the whole fucking staff hear you.” His hand snaked down your front, rubbing your clit with urgent circles to barrel you straight to your end. Your back was arched against his chest, your moans reverberating against the centuries-old walls as you came— hard. Your thighs quivered with fatigue, knees buckling while he continued to ram into you to chase his end, holding you steady with a firm grip on your arms. You had started to see stars when Aemond came with a harsh groan, warmth spurting in your pulsating walls.

You collapsed on the bed, breathless and broken in, while Aemond disappeared into the bathroom. As he returned with a warm towel to clean you up, you watched as the figure walked away from your view, leaving you alone. Something sparked in your chest when your husband softly caressed the harsh mark he had left on your rear, bending down to kiss it softly before placing another on your temple. You craned your head to meet his eye, and you let yourself hold out hope when you found him looking at you differently than before.

“Best get dressed; don’t want to keep them waiting,” Aemond said before turning back into the bathroom. In the silence of your isolation, with nothing but the faint sound of the shower keeping you company, you pondered on the aftermath. Others may call you foolish, but as you looked out to the perfect garden in your perfect husband’s perfect family home, perhaps you were still to find the perfect connection in your imperfect marriage.

#bella writes ✍️#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen smut #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #aemond smut #aemond targaryen #hotd x reader

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endless-ineffabilities · 9 months ago

Text

backhand stroke (18+)

tennis coach!Aemond x tennis player!reader

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

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

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

word count : 8k ▪︎ masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shouldn’t.

So why does it feel like there is something missing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just constant dizzying electricity.

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

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

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

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

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

“You like how we talk.”

“Trust me, I don’t.”

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

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

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

Not that it matters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until Aemond.

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

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

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

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

“What if I want to?”

You have him. He has you.

And you… have Art.

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

“So tell me now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

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

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

Twelve fucking fifteen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

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

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

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

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

It can wait, whatever it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is not going to end well.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

“Is it true?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s said some things about me.”

“And I defended you.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s nothing.”

“You said that he inspired you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Art.”

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

“Are we okay?” you ask.

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

You feel it all at once.

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

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

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

The gardens. Midnight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t know that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beautiful. And just not yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have him. He has you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, and it’s an unspoken plea.

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

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

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

“Yes. God yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re mine, ace. Mine.”

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

Marking someone who is not supposed to be his.

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

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

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

“40 - 30.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Aemond can. He knows this now.

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

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

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

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

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You first.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Aemond, will you - ”

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

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

“Wouldn’t dream of it, my love.”

You lean back in mild surprise.

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

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

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

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lyinginmeadow · 6 months ago

Text

Shadows will guide you home | Azriel × reader

Summary: Some fae don't like the idea of the Archerons turning into high fae and reader being one in unfamiliar city makes a perfect opportunity for an intervention Warnings: acotar related violence, not super descriptive, language, slight angst Word count: 1.4k a/n: Hii, this is my very first fanfic, please remember to be kind. <3 Also English is not my first language so it may be a bit rough.

Being another Archeron sister was quite exhausting. The constant comparison drawn between you ever since you were born created a dark place deep within you. After years of being poor, starved, and uneducated, the family regained their riches back thanks to Feyre. The cost left you empty, breaking your heart into a million pieces. You wanted your sister back more than anything, you would return your newfound lifestyle to have her with you again. Taking lessons together, sharing laughs, and pretending as if everything is normal. As if she never left and their father hadn't left them to starvation.

Instead, the Gods were laughing in your face as you with two of your sisters were changed and thrown into the world of high fae. While you got your sister back, there were matters to be taken care of. Leaving you alone in a city and with species foreign to you. You had met the inner circle while you were still human. They were nothing but kind to you then, but you assumed that was because you were Feyre's sister. Now they haven't paid you much mind because their hands were either full with court business you didn't understand or your sisters. You were left scarred inside while pretending it hadn't affected you as much.

''Are you listening?'' Asked a pretty blonde in a red dress, Mor. ''I'm sorry, I just spaced out a little. What were you saying?'' You smiled, red creeping up your cheeks. ''You are free to explore the city, you don't have to feel caged inside.'' She returned your smile. ''Oh, I don't feel like that. I...I guess it's kind of strange to be here. Is there an apothecary around here?''

''Yes, it's in the square just next to the bridge you can’t miss it,'' Mor replied. ''I must go, but I will see you during dinnertime.'' She smiled for the last time as she disappeared into thin air. She came by just to invite you as per Feyre's request. Your sister knew you were too polite to decline any offer and without it you would probably not show up.

''Right.'' You mumbled under your breath as you looked out of the window. In the reflection, you caught the sigh of a shadow. You whipped around to see nothing. Signing, you turned to the window again thinking about certain Illyrian familiar with shadows. When you first met him, he was like a rock that you could lean onto while the queens invaded your home. You talked, feeling an instant connection and thought he felt the same. You didn't remember what happened during the changing process, your brain blocked the memory altogether. But after waking up in Velaris, he didn't seem to notice you, rather seeking the company of your older twin sister.

You knew it wasn't rational to feel hurt by this, but that didn't stop your heart from throbbing. Exhaling a deep breath you went to explore the city as Mor suggested, feeling sick of your little pity party.

After hours spent in the city, it was starting to get dark. Nights here were magical, but your fear of them only amplified during years spent in the dark streets trying to provide for your family by any means necessary, so you tried to hurry back to the house. Taking a turn into an ally wasn't a choice you wanted to make, but panic started to take over every action your body made. Looking around you knew you were lost and didn't know where to go next.

''Looking for something?'' You whipped around with shock in your eyes. ''No, but thank you. My partner is just around the corner.'' You smiled politely your instincts kicking in as you lied smoothly. A shadow caressed your skin as if to soothe your worries and disappeared. You didn't have time to think about it more as the man standing in front of you stepped closer. ''Are you sure? We could help you, Y/N.'' Another dark figure from behind you said so near you could feel his breath on your neck. ''I don't know who you think I am, but that is not my name. And I do not need help from strangers. So let me pass.'' You tried to will your voice not to tremble, but it was of no use. You were starting to give in to the panic rising within you. ''And we don't need humans becoming high fae and hijacking our court. But here you are.'' Said a male in front of you while pulling out a knife. “This will send the message." Continued another one next to what you pressumed was the leader. One againts three were not the odds you prefered.

You had no idea how they found out your name or how they knew of your fate of becoming fae. "Feeling threatened by a female?" You knew getting a rise out of them was not the smartest idea. But maybe it could gain you valuable time for someone, anyone to notice. Velaris was supposed to be peaceful after all.

"You think you're funny, huh? We'll see if you'll find the knife just as entertaining." The male behind you pulled your hair harshly earning a scream from you. You didn't understand how they could blame you for something you had no control over. “Watch the alley, will you?” The male infront of you ordered the one standing next to him as he lifted his hand to your face. The knife danced lightly on your cheek leaving you defenseless. "Just so you know, maiming your face will be a pleasure." He whispered to your ear as he increased the presure on the knife drawing blood.

The whole alley turned pitch black. You had fae senses, but the dark was completely impenetrable yet familiar. You could only feel your hair being released, knife falling to the pavement, followed by screams and scratches on the stone. You were paralyzed, terrified, and unable to move. The dark had you in its claws and you could feel your breath getting more and more quick. ''How dare you hurt her ?'' A deep familiar voice took you out of your panic. There was no answer to his question. Only whimpers.

The shadows slowly dissolved letting in light from the main streets. There was no one here anymore. Only blood and scratches deep in the stone indicated a struggle.

Azriel appeared in front of you his hands gently grazing your untouched cheek. ''Don't look at it.'' His voice hoarse. You inhaled his scent making you instantly relaxed. ''Are you hurt?'' He asked worry lacing his voice. You gave him a shake of a head not trusting your voice. ''Lies. Shaken. Blood.'' Hissed hushed voice, startling you. ''I am not lying. I am just fine.'' You pushed Azriel away looking around for the source. ''You can hear them?'' Azriel frowned examining you.

''Look, I am sorry you had to bother with this. I know there are a lot of things to be done and I should have known how to protect myself-'' He stopped you from rambling with a thumb to your lips. His previous question forgotten. ''No one has a right to assault you. It is not your fault. Velaris is supposed to be safe. I promise that no one will harm you ever again.'' He left you completely stunned. ''Now, could you please show me where they hurt you, so we can heal it?'' Azriel asked slowly removing his thumb from your lips. Leaving you wishing it could stay there for a bit longer. You pushed back the hair that was covering your healing cheek. ''It's already healing. My abilities do come with very fast healing. As long as I don't use my powers much. I am just a bit shocked, that's all.'' You admitted looking to the stone path. ''Let's get you home then." He offered his hand which you gladly took your heart threatening to jump out of your chest.

''Look, Nesta started training with Cass and a few priestesses joined her. It is a way for them to regain their power and help them with their struggles. I was thinking that maybe it could be something you would give a try?'' Azriel asked as he led you through the house to your bedroom. ''Oh...I think I would like that.'' You smiled. Silence enveloping you again.

''Thank you, Az. For today and the offer.'' You looked down standing infront of the door to your bedroom. ''There is no need to thank me. But you should get some sleep.'' He looked at your door and then down the hallway. ''I will be right next to your room if you need anything. So please, let me know.'' He gave you a look of urgency and you gave him a nod even if you knew you would not. He probably knew it, too. ''Goodnight.''

"Goodnight."

#azriel x reader #acotar #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel angst #azriel one shot

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ozzgin · 9 months ago

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I was making this bear (not exactly like the pattern) and I was thinking of a cute yandere bear hybrid living in a cute little cottage with their love 💕 so cute picking flowers then another monster comes and they go maniac and kill them so sweet 🐻 wanted to see what you think of Mr bear?

Another lovely work! I can certainly see your vision. <3 Content: gender neutral reader, fluff, violence, mentions of murder

Yan!Bear!Hybrid who is the sweetest soul you’ve ever met. Despite his enormous size and imposing appearance, he wouldn’t hurt a fly. Always soft-spoken, kind and caring. Easily scared and quick to stumble on his words if flustered. The discrepancy is almost comical.

Yan!Bear!Hybrid who spends his days gardening, cooking, or simply enjoying you nature. Life has been a dream ever since you decided to settle with him in his humble cottage.

Yan!Bear!Hybrid who can be so terrifying when angered. It happened within seconds. A beast sprung out of the forest, lunging at you with bared fangs. It was a courting gesture, you see. You’ve caught the eye of many creatures, to the dismay of your partner. Before you could blink, his massive claws tore into the foreign body. Tender flesh threaded away in bloody streams, and you stared in horror.

Yan!Bear!Hybrid was quick to wipe your fearful tears. Now, now, it was a necessity, you understand. The paws that murdered in wrathful haste a moment ago were now stroking your cheeks with newfound gentleness. It was for the best.

Yan!Bear!Hybrid does not play around when it comes to your safety. Your life together, in solitude, is perfect as it is. Everything else is a threat. You begin to understand why other forest dwellers avoid your home.

[More monsters] | [More original works]

#yandere bear hybrid #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere hybrid #yandere headcanons #hybrid x reader #monster x human

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owlarchimedes · 8 months ago

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Something about Neil studying Wymack's wingspan and knowing to stand just out of range so he could run away easier and Jean doing the same to Rhemann and sitting just *within* range so he can be the easier more subdued target, because all fighting ever got him was more pain in the end and fighting back taught Neil how to survive.

Something about the parallels between these two long lost perfect court partners who never were and never will be. Jean was a whipped dog at his Master's beck and call, while Neil was the repeated thorn in their sides because he could never willingly make their lives any easier. Neil was born to struggle while Nathaniel was there to bear it just like Jean.

Jean gave up on Yves and Elodie and Marseille but Nathaniel clung onto Abram, onto Mary, and finally Neil and his foxes.

#aftg rambles #literary parallels #aftg #all for the game #tsc #the foxhole court #neil josten #jean moreau #the sunshine court #the sunshine court spoilers #no one talk to me i made myself sad again #made myself sad #nora sakavic #perfect court players #perfect court partners </3

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plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 22 days ago

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inviolable

part I

Pairing: Ben x Fem!Reader

Summary: Ben's your dad's best friend, his partner in crime, your godfather. You've harboured a secret crush on him for years, and maybe—just maybe—he's got some hidden feelings of his own that he's kept bottled up for too long.

Warnings: 18+!, Ben is his own goddamn warning, age gap, pining/mutual pining, forbidden romance, forbidden relationship, secret/hidden relationship, power imbalance, dubious morality, possessiveness, jealousy, smut (clitoral stimulation, fingering, handjob, cunnilingus/oral, dry humping, p in v, kissing, spitting), dirty talk, mild misogyny, I may have missed some.

Word Count: 7,741

A/N: I'm back. Christ, I'm on a proper mission with writing at the moment. Must be the insomnia. Thank god for it though, eh? Anyways... this is a little something that's been in my head for a long old time, it's based off a weird dream I had a couple months back (I was watching The Boys damn near constantly, like falling asleep with it on and everything, as well as reading a bunch of SB smut) and I just built on it, and it's kinda run away with me a lil bit. <3 Lot of the plot in this first instalment... plot is a term I use lightly. Because—what goddamn plot? Hope you guys like the little Sameo! (see what I did there? Cameo... but... Sam? No? Sorry.) So... this is part one. This one will definitely only have two parts... and knowing me, I'll have it finished by some time tomorrow night. So, yeah, while all the warnings listed above may not be evident here? They will be in the next part. S'gonna be a doozy. Until then? All the love.

Without further ado: INVIOLABLE

There are things in this world meant to remain untouched. Sacred things. Hallowed things. Bound by blood, by time, by unspoken law. To trespass against them is to court ruin—to lay hands upon the inviolable and feel the weight of the world shift beneath your feet.

Some doors are never meant to be opened. Some lines are never meant to be crossed. Some names are never meant to be spoken in the dark, breathless and trembling, as hands that should never touch find purchase in forbidden places.

But the thing about forbidden things? They don’t stay untouched forever.

You don’t remember when it started. Maybe it was always there, a quiet, undisturbed thing, like a seed buried deep beneath the soil, waiting for the right moment to break open.

Ben had been a constant for as long as you could remember. Your godfather. Your father’s best friend, his shadow, his second half in ways that made it impossible to imagine one without the other. There was no family barbecue, no holiday gathering, no Sunday spent in the backyard without him. He was always there, cigarette tucked behind his ear, beer in his hand, voice rough and low like gravel warmed by the summer sun.

And God, he had always been so handsome.

Even as a child, you’d thought so—before you even knew what handsome was supposed to mean. You just knew you liked looking at him, that your stomach flipped when he laughed, that you wanted him to notice you. And he always had.

Where your father had rolled his eyes at your endless energy, Ben had indulged you. When your dad had said no, Ben had smirked, crouched down, and let you climb onto his shoulders anyway, holding you steady as he walked around the yard like you belonged there, like he didn’t mind carrying your weight. He let you hang off his leg, dragging him down with your tiny hands locked around his knee, and he would walk anyway, his booted steps slow and exaggerated as he played along, dragging you through the grass while you shrieked with laughter.

And the gifts. The perfect gifts.

It had been your sixth birthday when he’d given you the lamb. A stupid little stuffed thing, soft and floppy-eared, but from the moment you’d unwrapped it, it had been yours. Clutched in your arms at bedtime, dragged through the house by one matted paw, tucked beneath your chin when you curled into your father’s lap.

"Lamby," you’d called it, with all the solemnity of a child bestowing a title upon something sacred. And it had stuck.

Your father’s friends had made it a joke—called you Lamby just to get a rise out of you, to tease you until you were red-faced and flustered. "Only Uncle Ben is allowed to call me that!" you would snap, every single time. And your father had only laughed, nudging Ben with a knowing grin, muttering something about his little admirer.

You hadn’t understood what that meant back then. You hadn’t known it was anything more than adoration.

But then puberty hit.

And the adoration didn’t go away. It just... shifted.

You told yourself it was still innocent. That it was normal to notice the way his arms looked in his rolled-up sleeves, the way he leaned against your father’s truck, the way his voice melted into you like whiskey and smoke. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything when you hated seeing other women near him. When he brought girlfriends to family parties, when they sat too close, when they ran their hands down his arm or pressed their lips to his cheek, it made your chest ache with something raw and unfamiliar.

He was yours.

Not in any way that made sense, but still. He was your Uncle Ben.

And then came the night after your eighteenth birthday.

You had been drunk. Slurring your words, tripping over the sidewalk, clutching your best friend’s arm as she tried—and failed—to keep you both upright. The thought of calling your father had been enough to send panic clawing up your throat, so you’d called the only other person you trusted.

He had picked up on the first ring.

And twenty minutes later, his truck had pulled up to the curb, headlights slashing through the dark, his expression set in something between relief and exasperation. He hadn’t lectured you. He hadn’t yelled. He had just sighed, tipped your chin up to look at him, and said, "This gonna become a regular thing, Lamby?"

And God, you had hated how warm that stupid nickname made you feel.

He had dropped your best friend off first, watching until she was safely inside, then pulled into your driveway and put the truck in park. He had glanced at you, eyes dark in the dim glow of the dashboard, fingers drumming against the wheel before he spoke.

"I can’t lie to your dad, you know."

"You won’t have to," you had promised, voice soft and a little too sincere.

And that had been enough for him. He had ruffled your hair, just like he always had, fingers threading through the strands before falling away. "Get inside, get some water, and go to sleep. No more stupid shit."

You had nodded, cheeks burning, throat tight. You had felt so young then, under the weight of his gaze. Too young. But you weren’t. And someday, he was going to realise that too.

Then came 4th of July weekend, the year you'd turned nineteen.

The heat had been unbearable.

Thick and wet and heavy, clinging to your skin, making the air hum with something dense and slow-moving. The whole backyard had smelled like charcoal and cut grass, the acrid tinge of fireworks powder settling into the summer air as your dad and his friends—Ben included—set up the launch station.

You’d spent the whole day running back and forth between the house and the yard, fetching ice-cold beers, mixing up pitchers of iced tea and lemonade, your father muttering something about not letting his old ass friends drop dead from heatstroke. It should have been annoying, but you liked being useful, liked the way they all grumbled their appreciation, knocking back the drinks you handed them, sweat dripping from their temples.

And Ben? You’d liked it most when he reached for the glass.

The way his fingers had brushed yours, barely noticeable. The way he had tilted his head back, swallowing deep, Adam’s apple bobbing, before exhaling with a low groan. "Christ, Lamby. Think you saved my goddamn life."

You shouldn’t have felt it the way you did.

But you had.

And now, as the sun dipped low, casting everything in burning gold, you were perched on the picnic table, watching them finish the setup. Your legs bare, thighs sticky from the heat, the denim of your cutoffs riding too high—not that you were about to fix it. Your father was barking out orders, directing Ben and the others, but you could tell they were moving slower now, the heat catching up with them, exhaustion weighing down their steps.

Then Ben sighed, slapping his hands against his jeans. "Goin’ for a smoke," he muttered, and without much thought, he came to rest right beside you.

Not on the bench, but on the table itself. Perched, ankles crossed, the slight shift of the wood beneath his weight making you acutely aware of how close he was.

You could feel the heat radiating off him, that earthy scent of sweat and sun-baked skin mixed with the cigarette as he lit it, fingers cupping the flame from the breeze before shaking the lighter closed.

And then—he glanced at you.

Just for a second too long.

Just long enough for your heart to stutter, for something low in your stomach to twist itself into a tight, hot knot. He looked away too fast, like he caught himself before it could mean anything, and it made you feel a little sick with wanting.

So you grinned, cocked your head, and asked, "Can I try?"

His reaction was instantaneous. A sharp scoff, a low laugh, and then—"Fuckin’ behave yourself."

Your breath hitched.

You shouldn’t have felt it the way you did. But you did.

Something in his voice, in the rough scrape of it, made the air feel different. You weren’t sure if it was disapproval or something else, but either way—your face burned with the heat of it.

You tried to brush it off, tried to act like it didn’t matter, but as he took another slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling smoke into the humid air, you wondered if maybe—just maybe—he’d felt it too.

The fireworks had gone off like crackling constellations, splitting the night sky into pieces, blooming in colours that made your father’s face glow with the kind of pure, boyish joy that made your chest hurt. He had been beaming, beer sloshing in his hand as he threw an arm over one of his old friends, laughter bubbling from his chest.

The rest of them had been just as bad, slurring through old war stories, cheering every time another explosion thundered overhead.

You had slipped away at some point, away from the heat of bodies and the tang of sweat and liquor in the air. The mosquito lamp buzzed softly from the porch as you leaned against the railing, staring out into the yard, the scent of burning gunpowder still thick in the air.

Then—footsteps behind you.

Ben.

"Knew you’d be hiding somewhere," he muttered, already pulling a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. He perched on the railing, flicked his lighter open, and took a slow, deep drag. Then, without looking at you—without any warning at all—he pulled the cigarette from his lips and held it out.

"Just this once."

Your chest constricted.

For a second, you just stared at it—like maybe if you reached for it, you’d burn yourself on something else entirely. But he was watching now, eyes flicking sideways, and you didn’t want to look like a kid.

So you took it. Put it between your lips. Inhaled, tried not to cough.

Ben chuckled. "Look at you. Lil’ fuckin’ menace." Then—softer, lower, just for you: "Lamby."

That did something to you.

Something dangerous. Something hot and breathless and twisting, your whole body thrumming with something bright and stupid and electric.

Then, before you could even process it, he was holding out his beer. "C’mon. Might as well complete the set."

You took a sip, felt the cold bite of it trickle down your throat, the taste of smoke still lingering on your tongue. Ben watched, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, before he tapped his nose with two fingers and winked.

"Don’t tell your dad."

And just like that—he stood, stretching, rolling his shoulders before heading back toward the others.

You sat there, reeling.

Preening.

Because it wasn’t much, was it? Just a cigarette, just a sip of beer, just a joke. Except it wasn’t. Because it had been just for you. Because you’d felt seen in a way that made something curl and bloom in your chest.

And later, when the house was quiet—when the night was settled, heavy, deep—you still weren’t asleep.

The guys had been too drunk to leave, sprawled across couches, filling up the guest rooms, your father snoring loud enough to shake the goddamn walls. But you were still awake, still buzzing, still aching with something you couldn’t name.

And then—footsteps. Soft. Slow. Passing by your room. You watched the shadow slip under your doorframe.

And then—pause.

Just for a second. Not long. Not even long enough to be real. But you felt it all the same. The moment passed. The shadow moved on. The footsteps faded.

And still—you sat there for the next hour, face buried in your pillow, biting back the giddy, breathless, shaking laughter in your chest. Because whether it had been him or not, it didn’t matter.

You wanted it to be.

And when your first date had come around, you had been so excited.

Not the kind of giddy, fluttery excitement that made you feel small—no, this was something deeper, something that made you feel light on your feet, steady in your chest. It had been a long time since someone had noticed you like that, since someone had looked at you and seen more than just the girl they grew up around, more than your father’s daughter.

And Sam had seen you.

A guy from a couple of towns over, nice enough, awkward but in a way that had made you laugh, spilling beer on you at the bowling alley before immediately scrambling for napkins, his face red as he apologised over and over. He had stayed with you the whole night, ditching his friends without hesitation, choosing instead to sit in a dimly lit booth while the two of you talked.

Not just talked—really talked.

Folklore. Mythology. The things that made your brain buzz, the subjects you had been considering studying in college, but never quite voiced aloud to anyone who might take it seriously.

But Sam had taken it seriously.

He had leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, asking real questions, pushing deeper, not just humouring you, but actually listening.

And when he had asked you out, when he had ducked his head and scratched the back of his neck, waiting for an answer—

You had squealed. You had said yes immediately, heart skipping, stomach twisting, exchanging numbers before parting ways, feeling like maybe—just maybe—you were stepping into something new.

So tonight, you had dressed for it.

Your prettiest sundress, soft and light, swaying when you moved. Sandals, simple but delicate. You had done your hair, your makeup, catching your reflection before heading downstairs, thinking—"I look… grown up. Pretty, even."

The thought had felt strange, thrilling, like shedding something old, stepping into something undiscovered.

And then—you walked into the living room.

Ben and your dad were lounging on the sofa, beer bottles in hand, eyes fixed on the baseball game you hadn’t even realised was on. The room smelled like cologne and sweat, hops and leather, the low murmur of the commentators filling the space.

You had barely glanced at them as you passed, already reaching for your bag, when you said, "Sam’s gonna be here soon to pick me up."

And that was when Ben spoke.

"Who the hell is Sam?"

His voice had been flat, clipped, like he was barely paying attention—but then your dad answered.

"Some guy who asked her on a date. Seems like a good kid. Bit of a square."

You had opened your mouth to protest, to defend Sam, to tell your dad that being a square wasn’t a bad thing, when you felt it—

Ben’s eyes on you.

A slow, sweeping once-over.

Your breath caught, the moment thickening, stretching, twisting into something you weren’t sure you were imagining.

Then he turned back to your dad, muttered, "She’s too young to be goin' on dates."

And your stomach dropped. Not because you were embarrassed—no, because of the way he’d said it.

The rough edge to it. The way his fingers tightened around his beer bottle, the way his jaw flexed, his shoulders tensing where he leaned into the couch. It wasn’t some offhand comment—it was something else.

Your dad had only laughed, smacking Ben’s arm, shaking his head. "She’s twenty now, man. C’mon."

Ben didn’t answer. Not at first. Just took a long sip of his beer, eyes flicking back toward the screen, but not really watching.

And that’s when your heart started pounding.

Because your father had been fine with it. He had laughed it off, joked about it, made peace with it weeks ago.

But Ben? Ben wasn’t fine.

Ben was annoyed.

And you didn’t want to play things up in your head, you didn’t, but he was coming across jealous.

And that—that made your chest feel too tight, too warm, something curling behind your ribs, something you shouldn’t want as badly as you did.

Because Ben had never looked at you like that before.

Sam had been sweet.

That was the only way to describe him. Sweet. Earnest. Polite in a way that most guys weren’t. He had kept his hands to himself all night, opened doors for you, paid for dinner even when you’d offered to split, and had spent most of the drive home talking excitedly about a new book he thought you might like, glancing over at you every so often like he couldn’t quite believe you were still sitting beside him.

And maybe that’s why you let him walk you to the door.

Because it had been nice. Because he had treated you like someone special, not just a pretty girl, but someone he actually wanted to know.

You had stood there on the porch, shifting slightly, fingers curling around the strap of your purse as he leaned in.

Not too fast. Not too forceful. Just slow, like he was making sure you had time to pull away if you wanted to. And maybe you would have let him kiss you. Maybe you would have closed the gap, felt something soft, something simple, something nice.

But you didn’t.

Because the second your lips almost met—

The door swung open.

And there stood Ben.

Big. Broad. Muscular as hell. Arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight, eyes hard and cold and fixed—not on you, but on Sam.

"’Bout time you got home, Lamby."

Your stomach dropped. Not because of the nickname, but because of how he said it. Because it wasn’t warm. It wasn’t teasing.

It was territorial.

And Sam? He felt it too. You could tell by the way he shifted his weight, by the way he glanced at you, rubbing the back of his neck before stepping back, voice soft, awkward.

"I had a great time."

"Me too," you said, voice smaller than you meant it to be.

He hesitated, gave you a small smile, then turned, walking quickly toward his car, never once looking back.

You stood there, arms wrapping around yourself, watching the red glow of his taillights as he pulled out of the driveway and disappeared down the road.

And then—you turned, crossed your arms tighter, and fixed Ben with a glare.

"What the hell was that?"

Ben didn’t answer right away.

He just… looked at you. Really looked. His eyes dragged over your bare legs, the hem of your dress, the soft slope of your throat, the lingering flushed heat of almost being kissed. His gaze swept slow, unhurried, deliberate, before finally settling on your face.

And his nostrils flared.

You shifted your weight to one leg, your jaw tightening, mirroring the way he stood, meeting him with a glare of your own.

And then—he scoffed.

"Get your ass inside," he muttered, stepping past you, brushing against your shoulder as he did, bigger than you, overwhelming in a way that made your stomach twist. "Before I tell your old man you were about to let some lanky fuckin’ two-pump chump feel you up on the doorstep like you’re easy or somethin’."

You bristled. Your whole body went rigid, something inside you snapping.

"If I didn’t know any better," you bit back, sharp, breathless, "I’d think you were jealous or something."

Not your wisest choice.

Because Ben went still. Not in a way that meant hesitation. Not in a way that meant denial. No—he stilled like a predator hearing its prey snap a twig.

Then—he moved.

Not fast. Not aggressive. Just deliberate. Slow. Unavoidable.

Stepping forward, backing you up against the frame of the doorway, dipping his head down just enough so his mouth was level with yours, so his voice coiled low and hot in the air between you.

"I don’t know what’s gotten into you tonight," he murmured, so quiet, so rough, "but it sure as shit better not be that fuckin’ pussy’s fingers."

You gasped. Your body locked up, breath hitching, eyes going wide.

And Ben just smirked.

Like he liked that reaction. Like he had wanted it.

Then—he straightened. Stepped back like nothing had happened.

"Better get upstairs, get into your comfies," he muttered, voice gruff, unreadable. "Come watch the football with me ‘n your dad. Or I’ll take you over my fuckin’ knee for the backtalk."

Your breath shuddered. You nodded. Wordless. Weak. Then you turned, stepping inside, feeling the weight of his eyes on your back as you headed upstairs—

And you knew.

You knew that nothing about tonight had been normal. That something between you had shifted. Twisted. Changed.

You took your time.

Stripping out of your sundress, pulling on one of your dad’s old t-shirts—soft, worn, faded, the fabric thin from years of washes, hanging loose over your frame. Bare legs, bare feet against the cool wood floors as you splashed cold water over your face, washing away the night.

Washing away Ben’s words. Or at least, trying to.

But they sat heavy in your head. The way he had looked at you. The low scrape of his voice, the bite of it, the way your whole body had locked up at the filth that had dripped from his mouth.

"It sure as shit better not be that fuckin’ pussy’s fingers."

You shuddered, inhaled deep, let the cold burn of the water centre you before heading downstairs.

The game was still on when you walked back into the living room, your dad and Ben both where you had left them—sprawled out, half a beer deep, yelling at the screen like the players could actually hear them.

Ben saw you first.

His eyes flicked over you, quick, assessing, then—that nod. That slow, subtle nod to himself, like he was fucking appraising you. Like you were something to be measured, studied, cataloged.

You ignored the way it made your stomach twist.

Instead, your dad’s attention finally snapped toward you, and his brow furrowed.

"I been wonderin’ where the hell that shirt went," he muttered.

You just grinned, gave a smug little shrug, before nudging his leg with your bare foot, signaling for him to move over.

"Looks better on me, anyway."

Your dad snorted. "The hell it does." Then, before you could flop onto the couch, he smacked your foot away. "Grab a couple more beers before you park your ass."

You rolled your eyes, but did as you were told, gripping the hem of the t-shirt and curtseying, voice sickly sweet.

"Yes, sir."

Then you saluted him, just to really drive it home.

"Fuckin’ wiseass," he muttered.

Ben just chuckled, deep in his throat, like he was trying not to laugh.

You disappeared into the kitchen, grabbed three beers, popped the caps off, and pressed two of them against your chest as you sipped from the one in your free hand, the glass cold against your skin.

By the time you returned, the game had picked up speed, your dad too distracted to care when you plopped the bottles down on the coffee table and threw yourself onto the couch between them.

"Could have moved your lazy ass, y’know," you muttered.

Your dad just scoffed, didn’t look away from the screen.

But Ben?

Ben side-eyed you, slow and heavy, and when he spoke—you felt it.

"Keep up the cheek, Lamby, and I’ll take that beer off you."

Your fingers tightened around the bottle.

"Don’t know what the fuck you’re so cocky about," he muttered, tipping his own beer to his lips, voice just this side of gruff. "Stealin’ one of my beers like I gave you any kinda permission to."

Your stomach flipped. But you didn’t let it show. You just sighed, long-suffering, exaggerated as hell, before taking another slow, deliberate sip, the bubbles sharp against your tongue.

And then—you settled. Leaning back, letting yourself sink between them, wedged in the space you’d claimed a thousand times before.

Except this time, it was different. Because this time, you felt Ben. Felt the heat of him, so close, so solid, so unignorable. And it took everything in you not to shiver.

Because even if you were watching the game—

He was watching you.

The game rolled on, the low drone of the commentators mixing with the occasional grumble, scoff, or sharp curse from your dad or Ben. You sat nursing your beer, the bottle cold between your palms, the sharp bite of it against your tongue as you stared at the screen, more focused on the way the room shifted around you than on the game itself.

Your dad was getting tired. You could tell.

He tried to pretend he wasn’t—hiding yawns behind his bottle, stretching in that slow, lazy way that meant his body was giving up on the night before his mind was.

You, on the other hand, were stretching out more. Slow. Casual. Your bare feet crossed at the ankles, propped up on the coffee table, legs long and catching the glint of the TV, skin warm under the flickering glow.

And Ben noticed.

You felt it, even if he didn’t say a word. Instead, he reached for his cigarettes, shaking the pack once before holding it out toward your dad.

Your father just waved a lazy hand, shaking his head. "Not for me, but might as well light one up in here. Don’t drag your ass outside on my account."

Ben just nodded. Grunted. Then—he lit up, fingers steady, bringing the cigarette to his mouth, holding it between his lips as he inhaled, slow and deep.

The scent hit you instantly—smoke and something deeper, something heavy and masculine, something that made the air feel too thick.

Then your dad yawned—loud and unrestrained.

"Shit, I’m beat," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. "You’ll gimme a ring tomorrow or somethin’, tell me how it ends?"

Ben just grunted again, smoke curling from his mouth as he nodded.

Your dad turned to you next. "Lock up after him when he heads out, yeah?"

"Yeah, yeah," you murmured, waving him off.

He just rolled his eyes before disappearing upstairs.

And then—it was just you and Ben.

You went to shift over, to slide into your father’s now-empty spot, but—

Ben clicked his tongue.

Your breath hitched.

Not because of the sound—but because he didn’t even look at you when he did it. Just sat there, lips still wrapped around his smoke, one arm swinging lazily over the back of the couch, his whole posture relaxed, commanding.

"Stay put."

So you did.

But the shift in weight, the pull of gravity, had you falling into his side—your shoulder brushing up against the heat of his broad chest, pressing up into the space right under his arm.

And that was when it hit you.

The smell of him.

The mix of soap, sweat, beer, and smoke, clinging to his skin, wrapping around you like a hand at the base of your neck. It made your head feel light, your skin too tight, your thighs press together just a little too much.

You took a sip of your beer, trying to steady yourself, trying to act normal.

And then—without really thinking, without really meaning to—you turned to him.

"Can I have a puff?"

He scoffed. Didn’t answer right away. But that was fine, because you were already reaching up, already plucking the cigarette from his lips, bringing it to your own before he could stop you.

And when you took a slow, deep drag, before reaching up and placing it right back between his lips—

The eye contact?

Was fucking unbearable.

The kind of slow, steady hold that made the air thick and stifling, the kind that felt like something physical pressing against your chest.

Your lips curled into a slow, shit-eating grin. And then—you exhaled. Blew the smoke right into his face.

Ben didn’t move. Didn’t react. Not at first.

Just let the smoke roll between you, let the weight of it settle as he stared right into you, eyes heavy-lidded, dark, unreadable.

And then—he smirked, slow and knowing, that cocky, heavy-lidded thing that made your breath hitch even though you refused to let it show.

"You’re fuckin’ trouble."

You just smiled, all sweetness and venom, voice syrupy smooth.

"Learned from the best."

His expression twitched—just a fraction. He let out a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face, before finally pulling the cigarette from his lips. His fingers curled around it loosely, letting the smoke rise, twisting in slow tendrils toward the ceiling.

Then—his voice dropped.

"Nah."

His eyes dragged down over you, slow, tracking every inch. His gaze stopped at your thighs, where your dad’s old t-shirt had ridden up, baring just a little too much of your skin.

Then lower. Down your legs, down to your feet.

"I mean it," he murmured, voice gravel, something heavier lurking beneath it. "You are trouble."

Your mouth went a little dry. But you tilted your chin up anyway, feigning innocence.

"Oh yeah?"

He hummed, a slow, lazy sound, before shifting in his seat.

"Didn’t like the way you looked at me earlier."

That threw you. Your brow furrowed, beer bottle cooling between your palms.

"What?"

His jaw ticked. He flicked the cigarette into the ashtray, exhaling through his nose.

"After that little cocksucker left," he muttered, voice low, cutting, "you looked at me with a sharp little glare. Didn’t fuckin’ like it. Not one bit."

That made your lips twitch.

"Maybe that’s because you were acting like an overbearing ass."

The moment the words left your mouth—

His palm cracked against your bare thigh.

Not hard. Not painful. But sharp. Sudden. Enough to make you yelp. Your whole body jerked, legs snapping together, feet moving off the coffee table—

But before you could fully pull away—

Ben grabbed them. Big hands, rough hands, curling around your ankles as he shifted you in one easy movement, and the momentum sent you falling back against the arm of the couch, spine hitting the worn fabric, breath catching in your throat.

By the time you realised what had just happened—your feet were pinned in his lap. And he was staring at you. Sharp. Knowing. Unreadable.

Your stomach flipped. You squinted at him, eyes narrowing in accusation, your body already on edge, already tense. Because you knew. You knew exactly where this was going.

And Ben knew you knew.

His smirk shifted—turned into something smug as fucking sin. And then, he moved. His free hand dragged along the sole of your foot, fingers skimming, featherlight. A slow, deliberate touch.

Your whole body jolted.

"Ben—"

His fingers danced over your skin again, dragging across the arch of your foot—and you burst into laughter. Sharp, breathless, uncontrollable.

"Shove off, you big asshole—"

He only chuckled, voice gruff, satisfied.

"Better keep your fuckin’ voice down," he muttered, pinning your feet harder, his other hand relentless as he tickled along your soles, grinning as you squirmed. "Or your old man’s gonna come down and bust some heads."

You tried to snap your foot back, tried to twist away, but he was too strong, too big, too fucking relentless.

"Dad’s snoring like two bears having a fight up there—" you gasped between giggled curses, thrashing uselessly. "Not even a nuclear blast’d wake him right now—"

Ben let out a bark of laughter.

"Christ," he muttered, still grinning, his fingers raking over your skin again, making you kick and writhe. "You got a fuckin’ mouth on you."

You writhed in his grip, half-giggling, half-breathless, your muscles burning from the struggle as he pinned your feet down like it was nothing. Like you weighed nothing.

"Gonna fucking kill you," you gasped, still kicking uselessly, your ribs aching from the laughter that you hated, that you didn’t want to be enjoying as much as you were.

"Oh yeah?" Ben drawled, voice low, amused, unbothered as hell. "You ‘n what army, Lamby?"

Your frustration surged, and before you could think—before you could talk yourself out of it—

You got a leg free.

And with one smooth, defiant movement, you lifted your knee, stretched your leg out, and pressed your toes against his jaw, pushing his face away.

"This one," you muttered, breathless, still flushed from the tickling.

And for a second, everything stopped. Because Ben froze, his fingers locked around your ankle, catching it before you could pull away, holding it there.

And then—his gaze dragged down your leg. Slow. Deliberate. Lazy in the way that only meant he was taking his time.

You felt it.

Felt his touch, felt the way his fingers tightened, felt the way his eyes swept over your thigh, over your skin, the places where your dad’s old t-shirt had ridden up, the hem curled high from how you’d been squirming—

And then, he saw.

His stare landed on the place between your thighs, on the thin, soft fabric of your panties, barely visible from the angle you were sitting at.

And your entire body lit on fire. Your stomach plummeted, heat spreading up your spine, over your chest, over your face, until you felt like you were glowing under his gaze, burning under it.

And Ben sucked in a sharp breath.

One second. Two.

Then, suddenly, violently, he shoved your leg back down, his fingers gripping too tight for a beat too long before letting go.

He sat up straighter, bracing his elbows on his knees, reaching for his beer like it was the only thing in the room that made sense.

The bottle tipped against his lips. He took a long pull, his throat working, his jaw tight, his whole body stiff.

You just stared at him. Stared at the way his shoulders rose and fell, the way his fingers twitched against the glass, the way he muttered something too low to catch, barely audible under his breath.

And you wanted.

You wanted so fucking bad—

To crawl into his lap, to trace the sharp edge of his jaw, to tangle your fingers in his hair, pull, make him look at you the way you needed him to.

Because he looked so fucking good like this. Like a mountain of a man, big and broad and sturdy, something you wanted to climb, sink onto, plant your flag in.

Your fingers tightened around your own beer bottle.

You tipped it back, taking a long drink, letting the liquid burn its way down, grounding yourself, steadying yourself.

Then—without a word—you shifted, leaning forward to set the bottle on the table, before settling back into your new spot.

Your feet still in his lap.

Ben didn’t react. Didn’t flinch at the contact, didn’t shove you off. He just watched the game. And after a moment, his hand—big, warm, heavy—started rubbing absentmindedly over the arch of your foot.

The game had all but faded into background noise.

The occasional roar of the commentators, the distant sounds of the crowd—none of it mattered. Not when his hands were on you. Not when he had been absently kneading his thumbs into the arch of your foot for the last ten minutes, rolling slow circles into your skin, his grip firm, practiced, easy.

You could feel the rough heat of his callouses, the way they pressed just right, the way his fingers flexed, working the tension out of your muscles like it was second nature.

And he wasn’t even thinking about it.

That was the best part.

Ben was just sitting there, cigarette balanced between his lips, rubbing slow, absentminded strokes over your skin while he watched the game, like he hadn’t once stopped to consider how fucked this was.

So you smirked.

"Let me bum one."

His fingers paused. Then—a glare. Sharp, lazy, warning.

"Cut it with the fuckin’ lip."

But you weren’t done. You tilted your head, batting your lashes, voice turning syrupy-sweet.

"Oh, come on, Uncle Ben..."

That made his jaw clench.

"Let me bum one," you pressed, pouting, teasing, just to see how far you could push. "You know you wanna."

And then, just to twist the knife—

"Corrupt me a little bit."

That did it.

Ben sucked in a sharp breath, something dark flickering through his eyes, his whole shoulders locking up—

And then his cigarette fell. Right into his lap.

"Shit—!"

He jerked upright, cussing, ash scattering over his jeans, pushing your feet off his thighs, slapping at the embers, brushing at the fabric as he snatched up the cigarette and stubbed it out fast in the ashtray.

You should have felt bad. You didn’t. Because you saw it. The shape of him. The press of something thick and stiff against his thigh. And suddenly—your whole body went hot. Because you weren’t imagining it. He was affected.

You were getting to him.

Your stomach coiled tight with satisfaction, your pulse thudding at the base of your throat, and you barely even thought before you moved.

You sat up slow, shifting forward, reaching for the cigarette in the ashtray, fingers just about to brush it when—

Ben’s hand shot out. Grabbed your wrist. His grip was strong. Firm. Tight enough to hold you in place, but not tight enough to hurt.

And when you turned to look at him, his face was dark. His eyes were on fire.

"Fuckin' quit it," he muttered, voice rough, almost wrecked, something like threat and warning and desperate restraint all tangled together.

And then, just low enough that it sent heat licking down your spine—

"Or I’ll tan your fuckin’ ass and send you up to your bed snifflin’ and sobbin’ like you fuckin’ deserve."

Your breath hitched. The air between you thickened.

His fingers burned into your wrist, his body coiled tight, his chest rising and falling just a little too hard, a little too sharp.

And you? You should have backed down. You should have apologised, pulled away, let the moment die.

But instead—

You just tilted your head, blinked up at him with wide, mock-innocent eyes, voice so quiet it could have almost been sweet.

"Promise?"

Ben went still. Not stiff. Not tense. Just—still. Like a predator right before it pounced.

And you felt it—the moment he cracked. The moment you broke him.

Ben didn’t say anything. Not at first. He just sat back, spine sinking into the couch, exhaling slow and deep through his nose, his fingers still wrapped tight around your wrist.

Then—he shifted. His body sprawled wider, his legs spreading, one arm draping across the back of the sofa, his whole presence turning into something vast and unavoidable, taking up space like he was daring you to crawl into it.

And he patted his lap.

"C’mere."

Your breath stuttered. You should have hesitated. You should have played coy, drawn it out, but you didn’t. You scrambled. Too fast. Too eager. Hands bracing against his shoulders, knees pressing to the outside of his thighs, you climbed into his lap, straddling him, settling into the space he had made for you.

And fuck—he was warm. Solid. Unshakable beneath you. His hands landed on your bare thighs, big and hot, fingers spreading, gripping you just enough to make you feel held.

And then—his eyes lifted to yours.

"You," he murmured, voice low, steady, edged with something raw, "are workin’ my last fuckin’ nerve."

You grinned. Syrupy-sweet, saccharine, the kind of smile that could make a saint burn alive.

"I’m happy to work something else, if you want."

The slap came fast. Sharp. Sudden. His palm cracked against your thigh, just enough to make you jolt, your breath hitching, your fingers tightening where they had settled against his chest.

"Where the hell’s this fuckin’ attitude come from?" He muttered, jaw tight, eyes dark, heavy.

You shrugged, playing at innocence, eyes lidded, mouth curling.

"Dunno." Another shrug, slow, deliberate. "Probably frustration."

That made him squint. Accusing. Waiting. Expecting.

So you tilted your head, batting your lashes, voice dropping into something honey-thick and dangerous.

"I mean…" A pause. A breath. A glance down at his lips before dragging your eyes back up to his. "You ever thought about how hard it’s been for me?"

He didn’t blink.

"Enlighten me."

You leaned in just a fraction, your fingers smoothing over his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath, the warmth of his skin even through his shirt.

"How I’ve had to spend the last few years," you murmured, voice soft, feigning confession, "watching you walk around with your tight shirts, and your big arms, and that beautiful fucking hair and beard that could give a saint bad thoughts."

Ben huffed. Lips parting, breath sharp, eyes dragging over your face like he was looking for something. Then—his fingers squeezed, pressing into your thighs, holding you just a little tighter.

"One to fuckin’ talk," he muttered.

Your stomach flipped.

"Oh yeah?"

Ben scoffed. And then—he let it out.

"Had to put up with you swayin’ around in those little cut-offs—"

His hands slid higher, fingers flexing just beneath the hem of your dad’s t-shirt, thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

"—watchin’ your ass eat ‘em up every time you walked away from me—"

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

"—legs on fuckin’ show, flutterin’ those big eyes at me like you’re fixin’ to get fuckin’ stuffed."

Your whole body flushed with heat. You sucked in a breath, sharp, uneven, lips parting before your tongue darted out, wetting them.

And then—you mock-gasped. Eyes wide, voice soft, laced with something insidious.

"You’re my godfather," you whispered, tilting your head, watching him twitch at the words. "You’re having impure thoughts about me?"

Ben exhaled hard. His grip tightened—just for a second, just long enough to send a pulse between your thighs. Then he groaned. Long. Frustrated. Dropped his head back against the sofa, dragging a rough hand down his face, looking up at the ceiling like he was praying for salvation that wasn’t coming.

And then—his voice. Low. Wrecked. Raw.

"Christ on a cross."

A breath. A sigh.

"Don’t fuckin’ remind me. Your old man’d fuckin' kill me."

Ben’s voice was low, rough, edged with something like guilt—but not enough of it to stop him. His fingers flexed against your thighs, thumbs brushing higher, the pads of them teasing dangerously close to where you wanted him most.

"If he knew the kinda shit I’ve been thinkin’ about you since you turned eighteen—"

Your stomach flipped. Your breath caught, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your whole body going hot at the admission.

Since you turned eighteen. Since you’d beenlegal. Since the world had decided you were fair fucking game.

You gasped, mock-shocked, but real heat licking through your veins.

"What kinda stuff?"

Ben stilled. For a second, he just looked at you, his green eyes burning, pinning you in place. And then, low, quiet, wrecked—

"Stuff that makes me feel like a fuckin’ pervert."

Your stomach dropped. Your whole body tightened, throbbed, ached. And then you laughed. Low. Sweet. Dangerous.

"I’ll show you mine if you show me yours."

Ben grunted, his grip tightening on your thighs, squeezing, pressing.

You tilted your head, grinning down at him, teasing, watching the way his jaw flexed, the way his fingers itched to grab you harder.

"I’ve been thinking about you when I touch myself."

He groaned. His head tipped back, his whole chest rising and falling too fast, too sharp.

Your hands slid up his chest, nails scraping lightly over fabric, feeling the way his body locked up beneath you.

"I think about how your hands would feel between my legs," you whispered.

Another grunt. A sharp inhale, his fingers twitching, his grip bruising, branding.

Your breath shuddered, your body buzzing, your mind spinning with the filth of it all. But you weren’t done.

"I wonder if you’d let me sit on your face."

His whole body went rigid.

"Wonder if I’d feel that nice, clean beard between my thighs—"

Ben rutted up into you.

A sharp, unconscious thrust, his cock pressing up through denim and cotton, so fucking solid that you felt it pulse against you.

You gasped. Your fingers dug into his chest, your whole body throbbing.

But then—his head snapped back up. His eyes met yours again. Dark. Hungry. And then his lips curled.

"You wanna talk about confessions?"

You swallowed, hard.

"Few months back."

His hands slid lower.

"Stole a pair of your panties outta the bathroom."

Your heart stopped. Your breath hitched, caught in your throat, pulse hammering between your ribs.

"Pretty little pink ones," he murmured, low, knowing, like he was fucking testing you. "Little bows on the sides."

You gasped.

"I’ve been looking for those—!"

His smirk deepened. Then—he rolled his hips into you again. The pressure made you whimper, made your head drop forward, your forehead nearly brushing against his.

"You ain’t gettin’ ‘em back."

Your stomach coiled, tight and hot and pulsing.

"Been using ‘em."

Your fingers curled into his shirt, knuckles going white.

"At first, just sniffin’."

Your whole body burned.

"Then the scent went."

Your nails dug into him.

"So I started usin’ ‘em to jerk off."

A sound escaped you, something breathless, wrecked.

His smirk turned downright wicked.

"Not a trace of your scent left in ‘em now, Lamby."

He ground up into you harder, your panties soaked, pressed against the thick ridge of him through his jeans.

"They’re mine now."

You whimpered. Writhed. Because fuck. He was just as wrecked for you as you were for him. And now—neither of you could take it back.

You shouldn’t have said it. You knew it was cruel, knew it was the final fucking push, knew it was only going to break him more—

But you said it anyway.

"If I’d known that sooner," you purred, voice silky, sinful, designed to ruin him, "I would’ve left more out for you."

Ben groaned. Deep, guttural, wrecked, his fingers clamping tight around your thighs as he dragged you along his cock. Slow. Deliberate. Heavy. The ridge of him pressed up against your cunt through your soaked panties, denim rough, thick, a perfect contrast to the slick heat between your thighs.

"You’re a fuckin’ menace," he muttered, gritting his teeth, his hips shifting up just enough to make you gasp. "Been temptin’ me too much."

You gasped. Let your nails scratch over his chest, let your mouth part into a mock-pout, breathless, needy.

"That’s not fair."

Ben huffed, blinking hard, like he was trying not to look at your lips.

"What’s not fair?" he muttered, voice gruff, strained, thick with restraint.

"Knowing I’ve been batting my lashes at you—" you breathed, voice sickly sweet, ruined, eager, "and you’ve been stringing me along."

His fingers twitched.

"Not giving in."

His thighs tensed under yours.

"Not giving me what I deserve."

The slap came sharp. Not as hard as before, but closer. Higher. Right at the crease of your thigh, just barely missing where you wanted it most.

Your whole body jolted. Your breath hitched. Your nails dug into his shoulders, clinging to him.

And then—his voice.

"If I gave you what you deserved," he muttered, voice low, deep, dangerous, a fucking promise, "you wouldn’t be walkin’ right for a week."

A slow, agonising pause.

"And your dad’d know it was me."

Your stomach dropped. A full-body shiver ran down your spine, curling at the base, settling between your thighs. Your fingers twisted in his shirt. Your mouth parted, a small, helpless sound escaping before you could stop it.

And Ben?

Ben felt it. He heard it. And it made him fucking crazy.

"You scared my date off earlier," you gasped, voice small, teasing, ruined. "You owe me now."

Ben’s jaw clenched.

"Should at least make up for it," you whispered, barely any breath behind it, "by letting me touch your cock."

He cursed. Low. Filthy. His fingers dug into your thighs, a full-body shudder raking down his spine, his chest rising and falling like he was barely holding himself together.

Then—his eyes snapped to yours. Dark. Sharp. Unforgiving.

"You sure?"

The words came gritted, strained, wrecked.

You nodded. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t second guess. Just nodded. And that was it. That was the final straw.

Ben moved fast.

His hand shot up your thigh, rough and unhesitating, fingers hooking under your panties, yanking them to the side—

And then he was inside you. Two thick fingers, stretching you, filling you, sinking to the knuckle in one sharp, devastating push.

You gasped, body arching, your forehead nearly bumping into his.

Ben groaned. His other hand snapped up, tangled into your hair, gripping the back of your neck, pulling you down, down, down—

And then—

He kissed you. Hard. Desperate. Ruining. His mouth slotted over yours like it belonged there, like he had been starving for it, like he couldn’t fucking breathe without it.

His fingers plunged deep, curling, pressing up against the spot that made you quake, made you whimper right into his mouth.

"Keep your fuckin’ voice down," he muttered against your lips, licking into you, filthy, hot, deep.

You moaned, soft, helpless, rocking into his fingers, clenching down on them, your breath shuddering, uneven, wrecked.

"That’s it," he breathed, groaning, his teeth catching your bottom lip, tugging, biting.

His hand tightened at the back of your neck, holding you in place, keeping you locked against him.

"You’re a soaked little thing, huh?"

You whimpered.

He dragged his fingers deeper.

"All this for me?"

Another groan, another thrust of his fingers, sharper this time, rougher, working you open.

"Fuckin’ hell," he rasped, swallowing your moans, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth, groaning as he sucked, wet and hot and desperate.

His tongue slid past your lips, licked into you, a full-bodied claim, filthy, unrelenting.

And you—

You couldn’t think.

You could only cling to him, whimper into his mouth, lose yourself in the feeling of his fingers inside you, wrecking you, coaxing you closer to something you’d never felt before.

@mostlymarvelgirl <3

#soldier boy x you #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy smut #soldier boy #the boys fanfiction #the boys fanfic #the boys au #the boys smut #the boys x you #the boys #soldier boy fic #soldier boy x female reader #pfiahc writes #my writing

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women-in-ssports · 4 days ago

Text

Sidelines and spotlights

In this high school AU, Azzi, the star soccer player, and Paige, the standout on the basketball team, have always existed in separate worlds—until a teammate’s crush sparks an unexpected deal. If the soccer team shows up to support basketball, the favor must be returned. What starts as a simple agreement quickly turns into something more as Paige and Azzi find themselves drawn together in ways neither expected. But with growing tensions on and off the court, they’ll have to decide if their connection is just part of the game—or something worth fighting for.

Chapter 3 | Party Hardy

Paige strolled into Gabe’s house with KK and Nika, still annoyed that KK wouldn’t give her Azzi’s number. As they poured drinks, she tried one more time.

“KK, let me see your phone real quick.”

Out of habit, KK started to hand it over, only to snatch it back at the last second.

“Nice try, P,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You want her number? Get it from her yourself.”

Nika just laughed, sipping her drink. Paige shook her head, scanning the party for Azzi but only spotting the soccer girls. Before she could dwell on it, Aubrey called out, “Paige! Be my BP partner!”

Grateful for the distraction, Paige joined her. As they set up, she caught sight of Tyler faltering when Trinity, his ex, casually wrapped an arm around Aubrey’s waist. KK, noticing, leaned toward Caroline.

“What’s up with them?”

“They used to date,” Caroline replied easily. Then, without looking away from the game, she added with a knowing smile, “Azzi’s grabbing our drinks.”

“Oh.” Paige kept her expression neutral, but she quickly downed her drink.

Azzi reappeared just as Paige lined up her next shot. Paige turned to her without thinking.

“Hey, Az, what are you drinking?”

Azzi blinked, like she hadn’t expected Paige to talk to her. “Uh… Shirley.”

Paige tipped her empty cup toward her. “Mind if I have a sip? You know, to ease my nerves?”

KK and Nika exchanged glances, and Caroline gave Azzi a slight nudge forward. Azzi hesitated only a second before stepping closer, smirking.

“After that shot? Maybe take two sips.”

Paige laughed, taking the cup. “Alright, this next one’s for you.”

She shot—perfect sink.

“For you,” Paige murmured, locking eyes with Azzi before turning back to the game.

KK wasted no time slipping beside her. “Damn, calm down, P.”

Paige, suddenly warm, snatched KK’s cup and took a sip.

The game went on, but Paige’s focus was elsewhere—on Azzi, who stood just far enough away to be out of reach. When the match ended, Paige saw her slipping toward the back door.

Without thinking, she followed.

“Hey, Az,” she called. “Want some company?”

Azzi paused, then gestured to the seat across from her. Paige took it without hesitation.

Azzi’s expression was unreadable as she asked, “Are you the reason I got put on my ass today?”

Paige blinked, thrown. “What?”

Azzi stayed steady. “Are you?”

Paige ran a hand through her hair. “Yeah.”

Azzi nodded, sipping her drink, letting the silence stretch.

Paige, nervous, just started talking. No filter, no breaks.

She told Azzi about Casey—how it started, how she ignored the signs, how she walked into a game one day and saw Casey with another girl. How Casey flipped the script and accused Paige of cheating first. And the worst part? The girl Casey cheated with was the same one who helped Azzi up after Casey fouled Azzi earlier that day.

“I swear, I had no idea she was on your team. And I definitely didn’t plan what happened today.” Paige exhaled sharply. “The whole ‘basketball team supporting soccer’ thing? That was just for Aubrey and Trinity.” She hesitated. “But then, the last two days… I don’t know. The little conversations we’ve had made me realize—” She exhaled, shaking her head. “You’re really pretty. And smart. And ridiculously good at soccer. And—damn, you can hit someone on that field.”

She laughed lightly, but her heart pounded. “And… I like you.”

The words hung between them. Paige felt exposed, vulnerable.

Azzi just studied her, then finally said, voice teasing, “Good thing I didn’t know all this before the game. Might’ve had that foul going the other way, and we would’ve lost.”

Paige’s jaw dropped. “Azzi, you can’t say that!” she laughed, equal parts shocked and charmed.

Azzi only grinned. “What? I protect my friends.”

Paige tilted her head. “We’re friends?”

Azzi didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Paige, feeling bold, leaned in an inch. “Yeah?”

Azzi mirrored her. “Mhm.”

The space between them narrowed until their lips barely grazed—just a breath of a touch. Then—

“Hey! There you two are!” Mel’s voice cut through the air. “Come dance!”

Azzi smirked, stepping back. “Want to dance, P?”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “Who said you could call me that?”

Azzi downed the rest of her drink, grabbed Paige’s hand, and tugged her toward the music. “We’re friends now, remember?”

The party swallowed them up again. Paige danced with her teammates, but her attention stayed on Azzi, who moved easily between them all. At one point, Azzi slipped behind Paige, hands resting lightly at her waist. Paige responded without thinking, pulling her closer.

For a moment, it was just them, lost in the rhythm, lost in each other.

Then the song ended, and Azzi leaned up. “I’m grabbing another drink. Want one?”

“Yeah. Want me to come with?”

“Nah,” Azzi said, tugging Caroline with her instead.

KK slipped up beside Paige. “Damn, P. Got yourself a girlfriend?”

Paige shrugged, eyes still on the door Azzi had just disappeared through. “Maybe.”

A few songs passed. Paige scanned the party. No Azzi. No Caroline.

When she finally spotted Caroline on the couch, she exhaled—until she saw Azzi standing nearby. With someone else.

And Paige would never forget that blonde braid.

Her stomach tightened, but she had already moved close enough for Caroline to notice. Caroline gave her a careful look but didn’t say anything.

Paige swallowed her nerves and stepped up.

Azzi saw her and gave a small wave. “Paige, this is P.”

Paige’s breath caught at the name.

The girl—Piper—extended her hand. “Piper.”

Paige shook it firmly. “I remember you from yesterday.”

“What brings you here?” Paige asked, voice even.

“Just something to do on a Friday night,” Piper said with an easy grin.

Paige’s gaze flicked to Azzi, who held two drinks. “Is one of those for me?”

Azzi nodded. “This one.”

“Why that one?” Paige challenged.

Azzi smirked. “It’s a Shirley.”

Paige took a sip, trying to ignore the way Piper leaned in, whispering something into Azzi’s ear before hugging her goodbye.

“See you tomorrow, pretty girl.”

Paige didn’t react. She just stepped aside, watching Azzi smile at Piper before turning back to her.

But as Piper walked away, Paige felt something unfamiliar settle in her chest.

It wasn’t jealousy.

Paige didn’t get jealous.

But damn if it wasn’t something close.

Azzi grabbed Paige’s hand, pulling her back toward their friends. Paige followed without hesitation, but something inside her shifted. Her walls crept a little higher, her steps a little less eager.

And seriously, what was up with Piper calling Azzi pretty girl every five seconds?

As they rejoined the group, Paige veered toward Nika and KK, choosing the comfort of her basketball girls instead. If Azzi noticed the distance, she didn’t show it, moving easily between Caroline and Mel as they danced.

But in her head, Azzi was confused. Paige had been right there—leaning in, staying close—and now she was slipping away. And Piper… Piper kept showing up out of nowhere. Three days ago, no one cared to talk to her. Now, suddenly, she was supposed to know what to do with all of this?

Azzi turned to Caroline, confusion written all over her face.

“What just happened?” she asked, voice low.

Caroline, mid-sip of her drink, raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Paige,” Azzi said, glancing toward where Paige had disappeared into the crowd. “She was just… I don’t know. We were fine, and then suddenly, she’s avoiding me.”

Caroline hummed, swirling the ice in her cup. “I mean, you did just introduce her to Piper.”

Azzi frowned. “So?”

Caroline side-eyed her. “Az, come on.”

Azzi blinked, genuinely lost. “Come on, what?”

Caroline let out a soft laugh. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

Azzi folded her arms. “See what?” But did little to look like anything but a sad toddler

Caroline shook her head, grinning like she had a secret she wasn’t ready to share. “Nothing. Never mind. Drink your Shirley.”

Azzi opened her mouth to push further, but before she could, Mel grabbed her wrist. “Come dance again! We need you.”

With one last look toward where Paige had disappeared, Azzi let herself be dragged back to the music, the confusion still settling in her chest.

Across the room, Paige grabbed a drink from the counter and took a long sip. KK and Nika watched her, exchanging a look before KK nudged her.

“Alright, what’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” Paige said, far too quickly.

Nika squinted. “Uh-huh. You were literally just dancing with Azzi like she was the only person in the world. And now? You look like you’re about to fight someone.”

Paige scoffed. “I don’t fight people.”

KK smirked. “Yeah, you just ruin them.”

“Exactly,” Paige deadpanned, taking another sip.

Nika crossed her arms. “Okay, so explain this twin—why are you acting like you just got benched? What did Azzi even do?”

Paige hesitated. She didn’t know what she was feeling, and that was the problem. All she knew was that Piper showing up—again—had done something to her.

She exhaled sharply. “It’s nothing. I don’t care.”

KK and Nika stared at her.

“You don’t care?” KK repeated, slow, like she was testing the words out.

“Nope.”

Nika pointed toward Paige’s clenched fist around her cup. “So why are you gripping that like you’re about to shatter it?”

She scowled and took a sip of her drink.

KK nudged her. “You seem… flustered.”

“I’m not flustered,” Paige said immediately.

Nika tilted her head. “Sure twin? Because you don’t get flustered. Like, ever.”

Paige rolled her eyes. “I’m not flustered. I just—” She exhaled sharply. “Whatever. It’s not a big deal.”

KK gave her a long look. “You sure? Because you’re acting like it is.”

Paige groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It’s not—”

Before she could finish, the music suddenly cut out.

The room went eerily silent for half a second before a voice rang out:

“COPS!”

A wave of movement surged through the house as people scrambled to grab their things and get out. Paige barely had time to react before KK was pulling her toward the back door.

“Come on,” KK hissed. “We are not getting caught here.”

The party turned into a blur of shoving bodies and frantic whispers. Paige caught a last glimpse of Azzi across the room, her expression unreadable, before she was swept outside with the rest of the crowd.

“P, we gotta go.”

For the first time in a long time, Paige hesitated.

“Paige!” KK urged. “Now!”

Paige cursed, taking one last glance toward the crowd — towards Azzi — before following them out the back door.

In the chaos, they never got to talk.

Sunday Morning

Azzi woke up to sunlight bleeding through the blinds and the distant buzz of her phone vibrating.

Then—Caroline’s voice, groggy.

“Az, your alarm’s been going off for, like, ten minutes.”

Azzi shot up so fast she nearly fell out of bed. “What time is it?”

Caroline grabbed her phone from the nightstand, squinting at the screen. “7:45.”

Azzi swore, shoving the blankets off.

Caroline groaned. “You really set your alarm for 7:30 and still managed to be late?”

“Not the time, Caro,” Azzi muttered, scrambling around Caroline’s room, grabbing her uniform, shin guards, anything she could find.

Caroline sighed, sitting up. “You know we have to leave in, like, ten minutes, right?”

“Yes. I know,” Azzi huffed, tugging on her shorts.

Caroline watched her for a moment before stretching. “You good?”

Azzi paused, halfway through tying her shoes.

Was she good?

She barely remembered leaving the party. One minute, she was with Caroline, trying to figure out what Paige was thinking, and the next—the cops showed up, and everything blurred.

And Paige.

Paige, who had been right there, close enough to touch, close enough to—

Azzi exhaled sharply. “Yeah,” she said finally. “Let’s just go win this game.”

Caroline didn’t press further. She just nodded, grabbing her bag.

“Let’s do it.”

They walked out the door, leaving everything else behind—at least, for now.

On the other side of town, Paige woke up with a pounding headache—and, unfortunately, Nika’s foot in her face. Grimacing, she shoved it away, stirring Nika awake in the process.

Across the room, KK was already up, sprawled out on the bean bag, lazily scrolling through her phone. Without looking up, she finally announced, “Girl, boo. I’m starving.”

Paige and Nika groaned in unison, both flopping back onto the bed and pulling the covers over their heads.

But then—Paige sat up again, rubbing her face. “Send me her number, KK. I need to make sure she got home okay.”

Maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe KK just knew better than to push it this time, but she didn’t argue. A moment later, Paige’s phone buzzed, and Azzi’s name appeared on the screen.

She hesitated—just for a second—before typing out a quick message.

Paige: You get home okay? You and Caroline? -P

Her mind went to yesterday and she finished her name

-Paige

Meanwhile, across town, Azzi was already locked in for warmups. She never even saw the message.

Worse—right as it came in, she slipped her watch off, causing it to register as read.

So when Paige glanced at her phone a few minutes later, all she saw was a message left on read. No reply.

Her stomach twisted.

Without a word, she turned over, pulling the blanket back over her head.

“Damn,” Nika mumbled, still half-asleep. “You good?”

Paige shut her eyes. “I’m going back to sleep.”

And for the first time in a long time, Paige wasn’t just tired—she was in a bad mood.

#azzi and paige #pazzi #pazzi fics

135 notes · View notes

munariplans · 11 months ago

Text

forty, love | natasha romanoff

part 2 | part 3

synopsis: winning was everything, and losing was a sin. unfortunately, you were on a losing streak, and natasha loved winning.

natasha romanoff x tennis player! reader

word count: 4.9k words

a/n: inspired by that one scene from challengers.

masterlist

“slice forehand.”

thwock.

“inside-out forehand.”

another thwock.

“move to the volley. hurry. your feet aren’t keeping up.”

despite the insult, the thwock lands. the ball bounces and hits right where you want it to hit. the singular drop of sweat that dripped onto the ground between your feet is not wasted, as you look up to your performance coach across the net, unamused sneer hidden behind his thick moustache.

“not fast enough?” you quipped.

he sighed, shaking his head. “don’t get ahead of yourself. you’re still number 2 in the state. if you want a shot at beating the princeton team, you’re still going to have to move much faster than that.”

you wiped the beads of sweat on your forehead, fixing the slightly loose hair tie, before nodding understandingly. still, you weren’t too happy at his latest onslaught of insults this past session. “you could have at least given me credit for the dropshot earlier when you came in. it was perfect.”

“perfect shots don’t get you the win. defeating your opponent does.”

he signalled that practice was over for the day, and you walked off court at the same time as he did to gather your things. the woman watching from the stands stood at that moment, and began her descent down to meet you in the locker room.

natasha romanoff walked up behind you as you changed, the sudden feeling of her hands on your bare skin a welcomed intrusion, as you sighed into her touch. she let herself have her hands full for a minute, roaming over your muscles until she was satisfied, before settling them on the edge of your shoulders, massaging the tight knots out of them. you were still so tense.

she pressed her lips lovingly on a scar, waiting for you to finish panting at the feeling of where her hands had been. “you were great out there today.”

“coach said otherwise.”

“mm,” she let you put on your shirt, turning you around to kiss you after, “you were fighting him back just as hard. are you okay?”

you zipped up your bag then, taking a moment to avoid her question, before, “do you think i’m like what he says? what they all say…?”

natasha motioned for you to continue. “that i’m all bark, no bite, now? that i’ve lost my mojo?”

“baby–”

“–because you can tell me straight up. i can take it. you’re my girlfriend, you can tell me, i can take it.” the room had suddenly gotten tense, a stark drop to your composure that you had managed to hide so well on the court. in the locker rooms, you were angry again. you had been angry for a while now.

“losing a few matches isn’t going to hurt your record, baby. you’re this college’s star player, you know this.”

“but losing four matches in a row is going to shatter my ego. my confidence. you of all people should know this!”

you had backed away from natasha, eyebrows raised, posture standoffish. she hated this. she hated seeing you like this. as bad as it was to say, she hated seeing you lose. it was the worst part of yourself that you let her see, when you lost. but what was she, as a partner, if not to stand by you through your career, your ups and down? she should be sharing your pain, taking some burden off of your shoulders, at the very least.

“just last week, i let it go to break point, and i still fucking lost!” you had raised your fist at this point, nearly punching it at the steel frames of the lockers, when you reminded yourself of just the complications that could arise from shattered knuckles. your coach would never let this go. but still, the gesture was there, and the fire in your eyes remained all too dangerous.

suddenly, you were pressed against the lockers, the weight of natasha’s body engulfing yours, as her arms came to hold you tight against herself. you were forced to embrace her back, despite your slight protests and pleas, but she was having none of it. she had wrapped you up in her tight, strong embrace, and her hands were finding themselves to bring your face towards hers, eyes boring into your own.

“nat–”

“–last week, last week, you were against a professional, baby. a nearly retired one at that, but she was fighting for wins at the australian open not too long ago. she’s been doing this longer than you have even started learning how to hit the ball. don’t be so hard on yourself, will you? nobody, nobody else, could have gotten to where you were with her. break point is a feat in itself.”

you didn’t look convinced. but she didn’t need you to look convinced; she needed you to listen. “do you understand? you need to look at things from a different perspective, from my perspective. not your coach’s, not your teammates, certainly not that player’s fucking groupies, who were gloating about your loss all the way out of the stadium. you need to believe in yourself, as i have always believed in you. and you can’t keep going on like this. do you understand me?”

natasha’s eyes never departed from yours, her gaze firm. her hands were shaking, a little unsure of your reaction, because as far as she knew, you didn’t look like you were going to back down from a fight. either with yourself or her, she didn’t know. she certainly hoped it was at least the latter.

but then, your gaze cast downwards, you nodded ashamedly. sighing into the air, you pressed your face into the crook of her neck for a moment, the height advantage letting you lift her up, and she cooed as she let you gather yourself.

“i understand.”

she patted the back of your head. like a mother would a petulant, but repenting child. “good. now let’s go get dinner, then a massage for your shoulders. then back to the gym first thing tomorrow morning.”

–

natasha watched you push around your vegetables for nearly half of dinner. she knew the campus meal tickets didn’t exactly provide for five-star dishes, but she had never seen you so down like this before. it was almost as if you had become a ghost of yourself.

“steve’s birthday is coming up soon.” she decided to change the topic, and hopefully, get your mind off of tennis for a minute.

you gave a nonchalant grunt, finally stabbing the piece of broccoli. she steadied herself. “should we get him the pair of boots he’s always wanted? i figured we could pull in wanda and clint too, if we want to get him a bigger gift.”

your eyes were still unfocused. it was as if she wasn’t there at all. “baby.”

you looked up, half-expecting natasha to be pissed. but she only gave you a small smile. “steve’s birthday?”

“we can get him the boots. i don’t mind paying for them. but i don’t think i’m going to his party.”

“why not? your match on that day ends in the afternoon.”

“yeah, but i think i’m going to be pretty tired.” not to mention if i lose.

natasha decided not to argue with you on it. she knew enough how touchy the subject of your career already was. instead, she jabbed the last piece of corn with her fork, and gestured for your mouth to open.

the both of you left shortly after.

–

in a friendly match the next weekend with the neighbouring college, you were faced up against the top ranking player once more. being a finals round, you had imagined that the crowd would be roaring with applause for how far you’d come, but when the sets began to balance after your first few strong starts and the heat of the afternoon sun began beating on everyone’s backs, the crowd dwindled out one by one from boredom and, to you at least, the possible disappointment of you losing.

it was only expected, from a disenchanted champion. the college’s once pride and joy, the one who was once regarded as a candidate with potential to win grand slams. unfortunately, people only really like you when you win.

but natasha stayed. and so did her friends, and your friends that she had managed to force to stay. you had gestured that they could leave if they wanted to, during the breaks, but they were afraid to even nod, or make a move, lest they wanted to be subjected to natasha’s ferocity, sitting behind them. it was almost humiliating that they stayed only because your girlfriend was forcing them to, you thought.

thwock. a missed shot from your end.

another thwock. “out!”

by your last mistake, the crowd had only left natasha, steve, and some die-hard groupies of yours that were slowly losing hope too. so when the final set was determined by your failure to execute a passing shot, and subsequently touching the net, the roars from the other side seemed almost mocking. you had lost.

natasha rushed down to the locker rooms again, only this time, your friends followed, and the absolute mortification that you felt, along with the pure anger and frustration of losing, overpowered any remaining sense of decency you had left.

the moment you spotted her coming in, then the company behind her, you almost felt like the first time the instinct to shatter your racket came to you.

“out! all of you, out!” you had screamed, not caring to be decent even to your teammates.

“come on, we just wanted–”

“–i don’t care, out! you’ve just come in here to humiliate me, haven’t you? gloating how i could lose, even in a friendly! how shit of a player i am, now!”

the people behind natasha grumbled, but one by one shuffled out. it was better to tell you about how unfair you were being another day, not when emotions were running so high. natasha was thankful they understood. but it didn’t make what you did any less unfair.

she sat beside you as you kept your head down. “that wasn’t very nice.”

“losing isn’t very nice.”

“they meant well, baby.”

“no, they don’t.”

“how many times do i have–”

“–a ton, okay, natasha?” you looked up, slamming your drink between the both of you. “a ton of times, you have to remind me. that my friends love me, that they’re here to support me. but how the fuck am i supposed to believe that when i don’t even have anything for them to support me for?”

“your friends don’t just love you because you’re good at tennis, my love. i don’t love you just because you’re good at tennis. this is ridiculous! i can’t believe we are arguing over this, i can’t believe you think of yourself so lowly like this.”

natasha was met with a deafening silence the moment she finished her last words, her chest heaving up and down from her own disappointment. the rest of the players had filtered out, upon hearing your argument, leaving only you and her there. like always.

your hand rubbed over your face resignedly, hands covering the beautiful eyes natasha loved loves staring into. she wanted to reach out, to pull your hands away from yourself, to even get you to answer her, to let her know that you at least believed you were better than this. but she was afraid of the answer she was going to get.

then, she heard a sniffle, and a small, choked sob afterwards. and that was it.

you were up standing the next second, and slinging your racket bag over your shoulder. “i’m going to the gym. i know you have class after this. don’t wait up.”

she was left there alone, the dismay and disappointment of it all weighing down on her, the moment the doors to the locker room were slammed.

–

i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have lashed out on you like that, i apologised to my friends, now i want to apologise to you. i love you, i’m sorry. the words didn’t seem enough. the guilt that accumulated and eventually avalanched into your heart was almost insurmountable, after the incident with natasha. you weren’t even sure you were worthy of being forgiven, you thought as you sat in your car later that night, still angry at her, but making sure that she was safe in the short walk home from her class to her dorm.

which was why you found yourself in the florist off campus a few days later, asking the employee what flowers best represented i’m sorry for being such a terrible girlfriend, and which flowers were most likely going to help you be forgiven. the white and blue carnations reminded you of the colours in natasha’s room.

“how much is it?” you asked, to which the cashier then showed you the till. you cursed internally, not even knowing flowers were so expensive nowadays.

checking the contents of your wallet for a minute, you cursed even louder at yourself at the emptiness that greeted you. losing matches meant losing money, that was for sure, and it wasn’t a secret that you were mostly funding your life with prize money won from big matches in the state, with college at least funded with the athlete’s scholarship. yet another reason why i can’t keep doing this, you thought.

it was between dinner for the next few days and gas for your car, and the flowers. fuck it, skipping dinners once in a while wouldn’t hurt, and you could walk from place to place.

you handed over your card, and began the walk to natasha’s dorm.

when she received you, natasha noticed you looked almost like a kicked puppy, none of the anger or smugness you carried with you on and off the court. no, with her, you were soft, and vulnerable, and all-too pitiful for her love. she knows the power she has over you. she never had to worry.

so she brought you in, allowed you to apologise, to beg at her feet, and for her mercy and forgiveness. she allowed you to worship her, taking her to her bed and whispering how much you messed up to her skin, how much you loved her when you were making her see stars, how much you thought you would hurt yourself if she ever left you when she was chanting your name over and over again, begging you to let her come undone.

–

steve’s birthday rolled around, and natasha was once again seated in the front row for you. she never missed your matches.

you thought she should have missed this one, when the match reached a break point and you lost again. when you had gotten so frustrated, so furious, over a careless choke that you had, that you received a punishment for smashing your racket into bits as the opponent screamed in celebration.

she came down to sit with you in the locker room after, but it was in silence. there was nothing to say, and nothing to be said. there were tears streaming down your face, dripping onto the floor. your vision was obscured by the tears, and you would have lost yourself if not for the hand that was holding your own, firm, steadfast. somewhere along the line, she was kissing you, then slowly pushing for you to get up, and bringing you to her dorm. you didn’t really remember anything more after that, busy curling into a ball and crying yourself to sleep afterwards.

when she woke you again to accompany her to steve’s party, you felt almost bad that the ringing in your ears hadn’t gone away, and so had your misery from the match earlier. but natasha needed a ride, and you weren’t going to let her drive back later if she had been drinking for the night.

–

you encouraged natasha to mingle around at the party, and to not worry about you, as you stuck around your few friends for a bit. she was unsure, but you were firm, and soon enough, she too had disappeared into the crowd.

your eyes never left her after you found her again, though, leaning back into a pillar as your friend sam went on and on about his own matches so far. you didn’t have the heart, or energy, to tell him that tennis was the last thing you wanted to talk about right then.

she was by the birthday boy, his arm slung around her waist as the both of them guzzled down cups and cups of spiked punch. their circle was closely-knit, you had always known this, but somehow, the lingering touches, and his hand slowly travelling up and down her back, was ticking you off this time. you had almost half a mind to ask steve what he thought he was doing, but you knew natasha would get embarrassed, and upset. you knew you already made her upset enough today.

but then, sam quipped, “they’ve been awfully close lately, haven’t they?”

he must have forgotten he was talking to natasha’s girlfriend, of all people, as he continued, “steve’s on a winning streak recently. on track to become valedictorian, potentially getting drafted by the top teams next season, it’s only a matter of time before he wants someone by his side to share it with too, huh?”

“...right.”

“you know how natasha likes winners,” he hit your elbow playfully, breath reeking of alcohol and other illegal substances, “she just loves the game. i bet that’s how you got her to fall for you too.”

“not my good looks, or horrible attitude to anything outside of tennis?” you tore your eyes away from natasha for a moment to glare at sam. he chuckled.

“i’m just saying, better to keep your girl by your side, future federer.” he disappeared shortly after, and when you found natasha again, she was laughing and putting her head on steve’s shoulder.

instead of feeling angry this time, you were dejected, and a little bit ashamed. of course. natasha liked winners. and you certainly weren’t one anymore.

you bit back a harsh breath, and went outside to get some fresh air when steve stole a glance at her that was far too intimate to be one of merely friends. you should have known. if she wasn’t winning with you, she was winning with someone else, somewhere else.

that night, for the first time in your career, and relationship, you thought about retiring.

–

but when the competition season rolled around, and the WTAs approaching, you had managed to pull yourself up in the rankings enough to secure a spot at a challengers’ round to hopefully beat princeton and start a domino effect that could lead you to participating in a grand slam.

natasha was walking beside you, struggling to keep up as she checked your schedule haphazardly. “the princeton girl, she’s on the other side of the roster. i doubt the two of you would be playing each other unless she reaches the finals too. which…at this point…”

you didn’t want to know if she meant that you wouldn’t stand a chance of reaching the finals, or that the princeton champion would be knocked out early. you were afraid you knew the answer.

steve had dropped her off at the stadium when you went outside to pick her up, his smug smile as he waved her goodbye, and his eyes following yours, making you want to reach over inside the car and beating him with your racket. you had to arrive earlier to discuss strategy with your coaches, and while you were more than willing to pay for natasha’s ride in, she had mentioned that steve would be dropping her off. she sounded almost excited, so you dropped the topic and went back to your practice. like you have been doing for the past few months.

turns out it wasn’t so hard to succeed, and win matches, when you were more or less resigned to your fate that nobody was ever going to expect anything more of you from your streak of losses all those matches ago, and you had effectively lost the love of your life to some football player who kept winning, and winning.

you were at a challenger’s round this time, so you didn't need to worry. you won, and won, and won a little bit more.

–

thwock. right over the net. the opponent misses and falls to her knees.

a serve that would have made williams roar in awe. thwock.

last one. the set was done if you landed this one. thwock.

the ball landed inside the court, right by the opponent’s feet. and you advanced to the finals.

you remembered natasha rushing down, not even waiting until you entered the locker room. she was running, running, and jumping into your arms, kissing you like her life depended on it. you spun her around, giving her a smug smile, trying to hide a bleeding heart that knew she too, was surprised that you ever stood a chance of winning.

the crowd roared behind you. people were liking you again. but you had never felt worse.

–

it turned out that the princeton champion had advanced to the finals, and would be playing against you, after all. there was no surprise for her, but certainly a surprise for you, as the newscasters and fans had aptly put, a grand shocker. they had all thought you had seen your glory days over.

natasha caught you watching the latest telecast from the hotel’s television, gaze zeroed in on the anchor who was comparing your statistics over the last few games. almost perfect scores. leaving opponents with loves in sets. behind her, were the students of your college, decked out in the colour of the university and your face and initials printed on their shirts, caps, flags. all of it. they had never looked more proud. the college had even rolled out a banner in your name, in lieu of the upcoming finals. you knew natasha enjoyed all of it more than you did.

when it came to the broadcast from princeton, the college’s president had come to give a special interview. he mentioned that he never doubted his champion from the start, unlike what your college had to go through with you. you found yourself wanting to spit at the television.

but from behind, the sound of running water from the shower had stopped, and she had come out, in a robe and her wet hair in a towel. she saw the glazed look in your eyes, and promptly picked up the remote to shut the programme off.

she settled into the spot beside you, nuzzling into your comfort. she had to pull your own arms off of the couch to wrap around her. you thought she must have known. she couldn’t be so stupid. she knew that you knew about her, and what she had always liked.

but then you remembered, beyond the resentment, and grief, of the past few months, of just what she had been through with you. when you lost your very first match in college, natasha had been your friend, still. she was dating the captain of the basketball team, you remembered, but she had gone with you afterwards to walk the long way home, encouraging you and telling you that it would get better. it always would. you only half-believed her.

but then, you won. and won, and won, and won. by the tenth streak of winning, natasha had broken up with said boyfriend, and began hanging around your dorm, the tennis courts, even the cafeterias more often. she went where you went, showed up to most of your games, was the loudest one in the crowd when you secured sets. she would wait for you after your mini celebratory sessions with your teammates, and fans, and friends, all for a moment alone with you. then, she would bring you out for drinks, for dinners, sometimes the occasional walk down memory lane to her dorm. she was kind, she made you laugh, and you were on a streak. so what was there stopping you?

you fell for her just as easily as you fell in love with winning.

to your surprise, she stuck around when you lost a few matches along the way, never letting it phase her, or you. to everyone else’s surprise, she stuck around when you twisted your ankle in your second year of playing. she had left a pattern in her wake, you see, of leaving all of her past lovers when the going got tough, or when they had simply stopped winning. it was inevitable, you thought. but no, not this time. when you fell to your knees during that tournament, screaming in agony as your ankle felt like it was folding in on itself, she was there. she was right beside the medical officer, holding you up as he inspected the injury, face looking even more panicked than yours as they wheeled you off to the hospital.

she was there, as they wheeled you in for surgery, and wheeled you out to recover. she never left, even when the doctors told you it would take months to recover, let alone get back to playing on your level. she helped you recover, was the driving force in your physical therapy success, even became the sole reason that you returned to playing so quickly after your injury. you hadn’t wanted to disappoint her, much less lose her at all. you were too afraid of the possibility of her becoming someone else’s because of your failure in your sport.

natasha stayed through your losing streak. she never got mad, or lost her patience, with you. it had been three years now, with her. she had never lasted in a relationship so long, so had you. she had talked about getting married before, right after college, to which you had entertained, but still never gotten the full grasp of. how could she talk about marrying you, with such a reputation that preceded her? what if you had lost, would she have run off before the altar?

what if you lost tomorrow? you looked at her again, this time, and she was on her phone. she was texting your friends to make sure they came for your match tomorrow. you felt horrible.

“nat.”

she looked up. “yes?”

“tell me it doesn’t matter.”

natasha sat up this time, her hand holding yours. she looked confused. “what doesn’t matter?” “whether i win or lose tomorrow.”

her face remained unchanged for a moment, but at the quiver of your lip, and the coldness in your hands, she broke her composure. she shook her head slowly, gaze steely. “no.”

“why not?” it was your turn to harden the look on your face. “why won’t you tell me at least that?”

“because,” she bit the inside of her cheek, “you’re the professional. you’ll tell me whether it matters or not.”

you sat up as well. “i just want to know that you’ll love me…no matter what…whether i win or lose tomorrow.”

natasha’s eyes suddenly couldn’t meet yours. she looked down, at your shirt, then away, but never back at you. you pleaded, “natasha, please.”

“no,” she remained firm, “no. i won’t tell you that, because i know you’ll beat her. you’ll win tomorrow. and you’ll go to the grand slams, you’ll be the best tennis player that’s ever played in them, and you’re going to win. every. single. one. of. them.”

“and what if i don’t? not even the grand slams, not even tomorrow? what if i come in second again, after all this time?”

you were growing desperate, and she was growing distant. you suddenly thought that you would have done anything, absolutely anything then, for her to tell you what you wanted to hear. to tell you that she would love you no matter if you won or lost.

natasha watched as you dropped to your knees in front of her, eyes already teary. your hands scrambled to hold her shirt, her waist, any part of her. she held them back, but to stop you from reaching further. then, she held your face again, but this time, it was you that was begging for her. you looked downright pitiful.

she wiped the stray tear off your cheek. she knew what she was going to say would either make or destroy you. “i’ll tell you this instead.”

“please.”

“baby, if you lose the match tomorrow, i’m leaving you. for good.”

–

thwock. thwock. thwock.

princeton parried, the ball is sent to the line. you return it with ease. princeton flicks back, you work twice as hard to send it over.

your moves were clean, cleaner than ever before, aided by a brain filled with rage and a heart filled with fear.

princeton served, out. you served, in. the advantage stood, and the crowd stood to cheer. princeton hit back, you hit harder. it was a game both colleges hadn’t seen in decades. there were talks of both of you dominating the grand slams, even possibly working together, even being the next best duo to ever hit the sport.

break point. the ball whizzes. and finally��after all the pain, the fear, the lost matches and the weight of the world on your shoulders, it was over.

you weren’t quick enough. princeton won.

a/n: i just love pathetic, pitiful characters who are down so bad for natasha romanoff, is that so wrong?

#natasha romanoff x reader #black widow x reader #natasha romanoff #black widow #marvel cinematic universe #tennis player! reader #challengers #natasha romanoff x tennis player! reader

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giveafike · 5 months ago

Note

i need a jealous ben fic NOW‼️

TLDR: just normal girlfriend!fem reader x Ben Shelton until you get hit on...

Word count + info: 5.1k! Whole lotta dialogue (lots of jealous/sassy ben and teasing). Mentions of Carlos Antagonist Alcaraz (NO HATE ALL LOVE! I HAD TO PICK SOMEONE, SORRY DONT CRUCIFY ME) Also, lwky wanted to fight y/n in this, idk stop being a bitch lwky.

Warnings + Content Ahead: SFW, jealous ben, possessiveness, neck kisses mentioned - that's about it!

Azzie Notes ✚: WOAH! NO "PLEASE" ANON??? hehe, I'm kidding, you got it. Made a twt btw (azziegivesafike), find me on there. I'll add anon asks there in my bio if you still want to ask stuff without feeling bad <3 but we can talk and yap over there! spoilers on there too.

When this goes up, i should be wrapping up the next Benny post (NSFW)... so keep an eye out! Halloween special coming out on Halloween too! Sorry for starving u guys for so long, but there's stuff on the way!

————————————————————————

Yours - B.T.S.

It's a perfect day in Monte Carlo. The Mediterranean sun blazes bright over the red clay courts and a salty breeze from the sea drifts in on the warm air. The tournament grounds are buzzing with energy, with players, coaches, and friends milling about. You’re seated in the empty stands, overlooking an outdoor practice court as Ben works through his drills. The clay glows a rich terracotta, and each of Ben’s serves echoes powerfully across the court, every stroke executed with his usual, intense focus. Sweat beads on his brow and neck, tiny rivulets rolling down his face, yet his focus never wavers. His damp curls cling to his forehead as he catches his breath between points, his shirt sticking in faint ripples across his torso. You smile, watching him move, not just admiring his talent but also the way he pours himself into every swing, even for a practice session.

You and Ben have been dating for just over a year, and despite both your schedules, you make time to see him, even if it’s only during practice rounds and training. He’s always been strong, both in his love for you and in his commitment to his sport. Having you there seems to centre him; he stands a little taller, pride filling each swing as he puts on a show to make you smile. You, of course, are always proud of him. You see the work and dedication he brings to everything, especially to you. To him, you’re a calm anchor in a sea of intensity, the one he confides in, his steady rock.

Ben’s love for you feels inevitable. Your humour, your intelligence, and your quiet confidence make you a magnetic presence. You’re not just his girlfriend; you’re his best friend, his advisor, the one who helps him open up. You’re his partner in every sense. However, your natural magnetism does bring on many others, and today was no different.

As Ben finishes a rally, you hear the scuff of trainers approaching. You glance up to see Carlos Alcaraz strolling toward you, hands casually tucked in his pockets, his grin as easy as ever, a small bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hey,” he starts, his warm Spanish accent wrapping around the word like a charm. He gestures to the empty seat beside you. “Mind if I join?”

You nod, shifting over slightly. You kept your tone light, you had caught his eye and made small talk before, you weren't one to be starstruck or dazed by now. “Of course, plenty of room, Carlos. How’s your day been?”

Carlos settles in, leaning back with a relaxed sigh. “Just finished my session. This weather’s amazing, a bit warm, no?”

You laugh softly. “It is, isn’t it? I’ve been trying to hide in the shade, I don't know how you tennis players handle the heat.”

Carlos chuckles, casting a look toward Ben as he drills. “Ben’s looking strong out there.”

“He is,” you reply softly, eyes trailing back to Ben with a soft gaze, who, you know, can feel you watching him. Ben's tongue pokes out the side of his mouth as he squats, rocking from one leg to the other as he waits for the next serve, his eyes narrowed across the court. You couldn't help but stifle a small laugh, adoring the image ahead of you.

Carlos leans back, draping his arm casually along the back of your chair, not in a suggestive way but one that feels natural. At least, it doesn't feel like anything. You can't help but notice the closeness but brush it off. Carlos has always been friendly.

“So,” Carlos starts, turning slightly towards you, his dark eyes examining your face, “do you ever get bored watching all this tennis? Being around it every day?” There’s a playful tone to his voice, his dark eyes sparkling.

You laugh lightly, shaking your head as you look back to Carlos. “No, not when it’s Ben. He keeps things interesting and exciting. I love seeing him play”.

Carlos gives you a knowing smile, his eyes holding a hint of mischief, lingering a moment longer than usual. “Ah, yes. Lucky guy,” he says with a grin. “Must be nice to have someone always in your corner.”

“Yeah, I'd like to think so,” you say lightly, shrugging off the comment.

Carlos is charming, but it’s likely just friendly banter. You turn back to Ben, watching as he powers another serve into the clay, the impact sending a cloud of dust into the air. Both you and Carlos take a sharp inhale at the unexpected force of the hit.

You notice Ben’s shoulders tense, his jaw tightening as he catches sight of you watching. He wipes his brow with the back of his hand, and for a moment, his next few shots come off harder than usual, landing dangerously close to the lines, his movements more forceful, even a bit reckless, for a practice session. The ball slams into the ground with a fierce intensity, almost as if he’s competing, trying to prove something. You blink, then shake your head with a small smile. Maybe he’s just having a moment of intense focus.

Carlos clears his throat before returning his eyes to you. “So, will you be staying for long here?” Carlos asks, his tone conversational, yet you feel the conversation lingering on the edge of something more.

“Oh, we’re not sure. Might play it by ear,” you respond, glancing over at him. “How about you?”

“Depends,” he says with a playful shrug. “I may stick around if there’s something interesting keeping me here.”

You giggle politely, assuming he’s talking about tennis, but something in his tone gives you pause. You feel a flicker of unease but push it aside, convincing yourself it’s just your imagination.

Ben, however, is clearly catching on. His next few serves are downright explosive, practically booming throughout the court as the ball hits the clay with an almost competitive edge. When he looks over again, his eyes narrow slightly, his lips pressed into a firm, tight line. His hands are at his sides as he mutters to himself quietly. Between points, he glances your way, brows drawn slightly, muttering to himself just loud enough for you to notice. You catch the faintest pout tugging at his expression like he’s quietly vying for your attention. Between shots, he meets your eyes with a raised brow as if to say, 'Are you watching me?' You stifle a smile and arch an eyebrow back, letting him know you are.

Carlos leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, casually closing the distance a little. “You seem like you’re used to this lifestyle. Like travel, tournaments, attention ..all of it.”

“Yeah, I’ve gotten used to it. It’s a different pace, but I only get to see glimpses of it when I-” you start to say, but your attention is pulled toward Ben, whose movements are starting to change.

Without warning, the ball cracks loudly off his racket, and he sends a blistering forehand down the line with an intensity that seems to echo across the court. His jaw is clenched, his brows furrowed, as he wipes his upper lip with the back of his hand. You blink, momentarily thrown, and struggle to refocus on Carlos, though Ben’s shift in mood has left you a bit unsettled. Is he just having an intense moment of focus, or did something happen to set him off? Whatever it is, his gaze shifts to you more often, dark, narrowed and brooding. You offer a small smile to yourself, more confused than amused, and turn back to Carlos, finishing off where you had left off, though Ben’s presence looms larger than ever.

On the drive back to the hotel, tension sits heavy in the air. Ben tosses his bag into the back seat with more force than necessary, shutting the door a little too hard as he slides into the driver’s seat. You scroll through messages and check in on group chats, but the quiet storm brewing beside you isn’t lost on you. His hands grip the wheel tightly, his jaw is clenched shut, his gaze locked on the road with an intensity that’s hard to ignore. With a sigh, you set your phone on your lap and glance over.

“You know, your forehand was on fire today,” you say, trying to lighten the mood.

He side-eyes you, his tone sassy as his lips pressed in a faint scowl. “Mmm. Sure.”

You raise a brow, undeterred. “Did you enjoy training? You seemed extra… um, focused.”

Ben lets out a sharp exhale, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. “Focused,” he repeats, almost to himself. He’s quiet a moment longer, then shakes his head with a scoff. “Yeah, you could say that.”

You tilt your head, giving him a look. “Alright, spill. What’s up with you?”

Ben’s jaw tenses, and he keeps his eyes forward. “You really didn’t notice?”

“Notice what?”

He kisses his teeth with his tongue, clearly annoyed. “Carlitos,” he says finally, voice clipped. The name practically rolls off his tongue like a curse.

You blink, caught off guard. “Carlos?”

“Yeah. Sitting all close, leaning in, making you laugh,” he grumbles.

“Like he’s some kind of…” He shakes his head, muttering to himself. “Honestly, baby, you couldn’t see through that?”

A small lopsided grin tugs at your lips. “Ben, he was just being friendly.”

“Friendly,” he repeats with a scoff. His voice raises a bit as he glances over to you. “I know exactly what that kind of ‘friendly’ means. That's the kind of 'friendly' I was before I had my hands round you and I-”

"Ben! God, you can't be serious" You stifle a laugh, your jaw dropped as you look at him. Sassy Shelton came out strong today, clearly.

He sighs, running a hand over his face quickly. "Baby, he's not 'friendly'. That’s what he wants you to think. I know guys like him. Hell, I was a guy like him before you gave me a chance. Now he's trying to get your attention-- right in front of me, mind you -- and-”.

“Are you jealous, Ben?”

He gives you a look, eyes narrowed, though the blush creeping up his neck gives him away. “I’m not jealous. Like, the way he was actin’ around you, leanin’ in close, smilin’ too much. He was flirtin’, and you didn’t even notice - I just don’t like seeing some guy try to cozy up to you like that. ” He hesitates, then mutters, “Especially not while I’m right there.”

You chuckle softly, reaching over to place a hand on his arm. “Ben, I think you’re overreacting. Carlos is just... Carlos. It’s nothing.”

Ben shakes his head, still frowning. “You don’t get it. I’ve seen him pull that charm on other girls. He gets all friendly and sweet and cool, but it ain’t just for fun.”

“Well, I’m not other girls,” you say, squeezing his arm gently. “And I’m definitely not interested in anyone else but you.”

He stays quiet for a moment, his jaw working as he chews on your words. Finally, he exhales, his grip loosening slightly on the wheel. “I know… it’s just… I don’t like him thinkin’ he can try somethin’. I didn’t like the way he was lookin’ at you.”

You raise an eyebrow, clearly amused now. "You’re really worked up over this, aren’t you? Were you pouting out there on the court?”

He huffs, looking away, a hint of a smirk breaking through as he rolls his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

"I wouldn't but here you are, pouting, right in front of me." You tease, your voice lilting as you inch over to his face.

He lets out a deep breath, turning back to the road, his anger melting a bit but still lingering in his words. “I just think he should’ve backed off,” he mutters. “Especially when he knows you're mine".

“Ben, no one’s got my attention like you do. You know that. I'm yours.”

He finally lets out a reluctant smile, though he tries to hide it. “Yeah, well,” he mutters, his tone softer, “good. ‘Cause I don’t plan on sharing.”

The rest of the ride goes by easier as you talk about your own life, people and things, taking Ben's mind off of the court.

Later that evening, as you’re finishing up your skincare routine. The day's events have already faded from your mind, but you know Ben hasn’t completely shaken it off. He’s been quieter than usual since practice ended. Now he’s standing in the doorway, freshly showered, his hair damp, his grey t-shirt hanging loosely on his frame, and pyjama shorts slung low on his hips.

His hands are in his pockets, but his eyes are focused intently on you. He’s got that familiar look, pouty lips, eyes narrowed, the kind of look he gets when he wants to ask something.

You glance at him in the mirror and smile softly. “What’s up?”

Ben doesn’t respond right away. He pushes himself off the doorframe, stepping closer. “So...what did Carlos actually say to you today?” he asks, his voice quiet and soft.

The question catches you a little off guard, surely he can't still be on this. “Carlos?” you echo, frowning slightly. “You mean… earlier, at practice?”

He nods, but there’s no humour in his expression. “Yeah, baby. What’d he say?”

You chuckle softly, turning to face him. “Ben, come on, it was just a friendly chat. It wasn’t like that-”

“I didn’t say it was like that,” Ben cuts in, his voice sharper than usual, his tone still soft as he folds his arms over his broad chest, looking down at your face, almost with pleading eyes. “Just… tell me what he said.”

You hesitate, realising that he’s serious, the playfulness you expected absent. “He was just chatting. You know, we were talking about tennis, the match, practice…” you start, unsure why he’s so worked up. “At one point, he was asking if we, or was it just me? Whatever, asking if we were staying here and I said we haven't decided and then he said something about he might be sticking around. Like, if he found something ‘worthy,’ he’d stay longer or whatever.”

Ben’s jaw clenches, and he shakes his head slowly, bringing a hand up to wipe his face. “Worthy?” he mutters to himself, his expression hardening. His hands are still buried in his pockets, but you can see the tension in his shoulders. “He said that? Like, right to you? Exactly like that?”

You shrug, still not fully understanding why this has him so riled up. “Yeah, but I didn’t think anything of it. He didn’t mean anything-”

“Didn’t mean anything?” Ben interrupts, his voice climbing slightly, his hands waving exasperatedly. He steps closer again, almost looming over you. “He knew what he was sayin’. He knows how he sounds, baby. And you laughed at him.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Wait, you’re mad because I laughed?”

Ben huffs, looking down at you with frustration evident in every line of his body. “No, but babe- I’m mad ‘cause he pulled your attention away from me! You’re there to watch me, not talk to him. But he just slides in there, all smooth, and suddenly you’re caught up in some conversation with him, while I’m bustin’ my ass on court, looking over to see my girl caught my shot only to see some guy leaning over, making eyes at her!”

You bite back a smile at the raw honesty in his voice. He’s not playing games, not teasing, just genuinely upset. “Ben, I wasn’t ignoring you-”

“Well, you weren’t exactly watching me either!” he exclaims, cutting you off again. “I saw you, baby. You weren’t even lookin’ my way.” His voice softens, but it’s filled with frustration, his hand reaching for yours as he holds them, running his thumb over your knuckles. “You’re supposed to be there for me, and he’s over here making you laugh, takin’ your attention like it’s no big deal.”

You sigh, reaching out to rest your hand on his chest, trying to soothe the tension. “Ben, I’m always there for you. He was just making conversation.”

Ben’s eyes narrow and he drops your hands softly. He closes his eyes like he's mulling over everything before he suddenly opens his mouth to mimic Carlos’s voice, clearly irritated. “‘If you find somethin’ worthy, no?’” he says in a poorly executed accent, making you almost burst out laughing. “‘Maybe you’ll stay longer, si?’” He huffs, shaking his head. “What kind of friendly talk is that? He knows what he’s doin’. He talks like that on purpose.”

You can’t help but chuckle at his attempt to copy Carlos, even if you know he’s genuinely upset. “Ben, baby, stop. You’re being ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” Ben stares at you, a pout forming on his lips again. “I’m ridiculous for wantin’ my girl to be there for me? For not likin’ that some other guy’s got your eyes on him when they should be on me?"

Your gaze softens as you look up at him and bring a hand up to his face, your thumb tracing a line along his jaw. “Ben, I was paying attention to you. Maybe not in every single moment, but trust me, you had my attention. You always do.”

He still looks unconvinced, his lips pressing into a tight line. “It didn’t feel like it,” he mutters. “Not when I saw you smilin’ at him. Like, really smilin’. I didn’t like it.”

You let out a soft breath, wrapping your arms around his neck, and pulling him closer. “Ben, I don’t care about Carlos. I only care about you.”

His hands finally find your body again, this time resting on your waist as he looks down at you, his eyes still stormy with frustration. “Yeah, well, he’s smooth, babe. And I don’t like sharing your attention with anyone. Not him. Not anyone.”

“Ben, you never have to. I’m all yours,” you reassure him, smiling as he finally relaxes in your arms, nestling himself into your neck as you feel a small smile against your skin, breaking through his earlier frustration. After a few seconds, he pulls away and stares at you for a long moment, then sighs deeply, the tension slowly leaving his body.

“Yeah… I know,” he mutters, sounding defeated but still a little stubborn.

You press a kiss to his cheek, your lips lingering against his skin. “Why don’t you let me help you relax, huh? Come here.”

He reluctantly follows as you guide him to sit on the vanity stool. His pout is still present, but the frustration is starting to ebb away. You grab one of your serums and start gently applying it to his face, massaging it into his skin. He closes his eyes, letting out a quiet sigh as you work on his stress.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” you tease softly, fingers working in small circles along his jawline.

“Yeah, but you love me,” Ben mumbles, his voice soft, his head leaning into your palm.

You smile, brushing your thumb gently over his cheek. “I do love you. But you’ve gotta stop worrying about Carlos. He’s not worth your time.”

Ben doesn’t say anything for a moment, just lets you continue massaging the cream into his skin, the tension slowly draining from his body. After a while, he murmurs, “You think Carlos would wanna try this skincare routine?”

You roll your eyes, chuckling. “Ben, I don’t care what Carlos would want.”

He cracks a smile, his eyes still closed, clearly pleased with your response. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t wanna share that either.”

You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to his lips, his hand finding its way to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. When you finally pull back, you see a small, content smile on his face.

“Feel better?” you ask gently, running your fingers through his damp curls. You gently place yourself on his lap, both of you sitting in front of the vanity mirror, skin glazed and soft.

“Yeah…” he admits quietly, nuzzling into your neck as his arms wrap around your waist. “I just… I just want you all to myself, baby.”

You press another kiss to his forehead, feeling him relax further as you gently play with his hair. “You already have me, silly.”

Ben hums softly, his lips brushing against your neck as he murmurs, “You’re all mine.”

And at that moment, all the jealousy melts away as he buries his face in the crook of your neck once again, smiling softly as your hands work their way through his curls, your touch easing all his frustrations into nothing more than soft, happy sighs and sweet murmurs.

The next day at the court, thinking maybe things have settled. After all, Ben had gotten everything off his chest last night, or so you thought. But the moment you take your seat near the sidelines, you see Carlos already lingering nearby, his eyes lighting up as soon as he spots you. His confident stride brings him over with the same swagger as yesterday, but this time there’s a shift. He’s more deliberate.

“Good morning,” he says, leaning casually on the railing. “Back to watch Ben again, eh?”

You nod, offering a polite smile. “Looking forward to it.” Ben's words and frustrations spin around your head, he wasn't one to overreact or be quick to be jealous, so seeing how upset he was yesterday, you knew this meant a great deal to him. You also felt more suspicious of Carlos, finding lingering undertones in his actions and words.

Carlos leans in, just close enough that you feel a flicker of discomfort. “You know, it must be hard, watching your boyfriend all day in this heat no? You must get so bored. Why don’t you come down to the lounge, we can grab a drink?” His tone is light, but there’s no mistaking the undertone. It’s flirty, persistent, and more than friendly. You can feel it, and it makes you shift in your seat. Ben might've been right to have been so built up about this.

“I’m good, thanks. I'm here for Ben,” your voice firm but still kind. You don’t want to cause a scene, but it’s clear he’s not taking the hint. You look across the court and see Ben shaking his racket a bit, his gaze leaving yours as he stares at the clay under him, his jaw clenched tight.

Carlos chuckles, ignoring the brush-off, his arm lingering along the back of your chair. “One drink can’t hurt, I promise I won’t steal you for too long.”

As he leans closer, you shift in your seat. At that moment, you catch sight of Ben, watching intently from across the court. He’s looking directly at Carlos, his expression sharp. There’s an intensity in his eyes you haven’t seen before, more than competitiveness, it’s protective.

Without hesitation, Ben strides over, his southern drawl thicker than usual. “Carlitos,” he says, each syllable measured, almost mockingly. “She’s with me, man.”

Carlos raises his hands, feigning innocence as he raises his eyebrows and smirks. “Relax, we were only talking.”

“Yeah? Then talk to someone else, she's not interested” Ben replies, his tone leaving no room for debate. Ben steps up onto the ledge, leaning over the rails, facing Carlos eye to eye.

“Alright, no harm. See you around.” Carlos smirks but backs off, tossing a wink your way before he leaves. Ben watches him retreat, his expression firm, his hand gripping the rail. His eyes are still trained on the Spaniard’s back, and you can see the fire in them.

“Ben,” you murmur softly, reaching for his arm, trying to calm him. “I told him I wasn’t interested.”

His gaze softens as he looks down at you. “I saw him, babe. Too close.” His accent draws out each word slowly, his voice still tight with frustration. “I don’t like the way he was lookin’ at you.”

“I handled it,” you say gently, standing up to face him. “And besides, I’m not interested in anyone but you. He was just trying to get under your skin.”

Ben’s gaze softens slightly, but there’s still that protective edge to him. His hand moves to your waist, pulling you a little closer. “I don’t care what he was tryin’ to do. He doesn’t get to talk to you like that. Not when you’re mine.”

You smile softly, resting a hand on his chest, feeling the tension slowly drain from him. “I’ve always been yours, Ben. You don’t have to worry about anyone else.”

He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours for a moment, eyes closing as he exhales a shaky breath. “I know… I just hate seein’ anyone think they can….” His voice trails off, and he sighs, pulling you closer. You can feel his body start to relax, but there’s still an underlying frustration there. His hand tightens on your waist, the rail holding distance between you two and before you can say anything else, he sighs.

“I don’t want you sittin’ there no more,” he mutters, “You’re gonna stay with me.”

It’s not up for debate, he’s made his decision. And honestly, you don’t mind. He helps you come onto the court, holding you tight as he presses a kiss to your temple. Being by Ben’s side feels right, especially when he’s feeling this protective. You settle next to him, his arm draped over your shoulders, as he goes through the rest of his training. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Stay by me on my bench today, baby.”

After practice, Ben takes you to the player lounge. He’s quieter than usual, but you can tell he’s still stewing over Carlos. His leg bounces nervously as he sits beside you, his arm never leaving your waist. The lounge is almost completely silent, but all Ben can focus on is making sure Carlos doesn’t come anywhere near you again.

“Ben,” you say softly with a gentle smile, resting a hand on his bouncing knee, trying to ground him. “It’s over. He’s not gonna try anything. You made yourself clear.”

He lets out a frustrated breath, biting the inside of his cheek. “He better not.”

You tilt your head, watching him with a small smile. “You’re so worked up over this, huh?”

Ben glances at you, his lips tightening for a second before he sighs. “I just….” He trails off again, clearly struggling to find the words. “You’re mine, baby. That's all.”

You bite back a smile at the possessiveness in his voice. It’s extremely rare for Ben to be this openly jealous, but when it happens, it’s kind of adorable. You lean closer, your fingers brushing over the curls at the nape of his neck. “You don’t need to get all worked up. I only have eyes for one man.”

His body visibly relaxes at your words, the tension in his shoulders easing as you play with his hair. Ben’s cheeks flush slightly at the softness of your touch, and his eyes flicker to yours.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, almost vulnerable.

“Yeah,” you whisper back, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth softly. “Only you, Ben.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, a small smile tugging at the edges of his lips before it breaks into that gummy smile you know and love, his cheeks tinting a slight shade of pink. His hand comes up to cup your cheek gently, and he leans into the kiss, pressing his lips against yours in a way that’s sweet and slow. It’s like he’s pouring all of his emotions into that one moment, letting go of all the tension that’s been building up.

After Ben pulls back from the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, you smile and gently run your fingers through his curls. He looks so at peace, the tension from earlier melting away, but you can’t resist teasing him a little.

“I didn’t know you could get so jealous,” you say with a playful grin.

Ben huffs a soft laugh, his eyes narrowing playfully as his cheeks flush. “I wasn’t that jealous,” he mumbles, but the way he bites his lower lip, the slight embarrassment in his voice, tells you otherwise.

“Oh really?” You arch a brow, leaning in closer so your lips brush the shell of his ear. “You didn’t sound jealous at all when you called him ‘Carlitos,’ like you were ready to throw him onto the court.”

Ben's blush deepens, and he buries his face in your neck, hiding his smile as you giggle. “Okay, maybe a little jealous,” he admits, his voice muffled against your skin. “But I don’t like guys like him hangin’ around you.”

You laugh softly, your fingers still toying with his curls as he nuzzles deeper into your neck, clearly flustered. “You’re so possessive, Ben,” you tease, your voice warm and affectionate. “It’s kind of cute.”

At that, Ben lets out a breathy, almost bashful chuckle, his lips brushing against your neck as he tries to stifle his own laughter. “Stop,” he mumbles, the smile evident in his voice. “You’re gonna make me blush even more.”

You tilt your head slightly, giving him better access to your neck, and he takes the invitation, pressing the softest, sweetest kisses against your skin. His lips linger there, warm and tender, as his arms wrap tighter around your waist. You feel his breath hitch as he tries not to laugh again, but his amusement bubbles up, and he giggles softly against your neck.

The sound makes your heart melt. Seeing Ben, so often confident and fiery, acting like this, soft, almost giddy in your arms, is a side of him that you absolutely adore and could never take for granted. You smile, feeling his giggles vibrate against your skin as his face stays tucked into your neck, hiding the full blush on his cheeks.

“Who knew the big, tough Ben Shelton could be so shy,” you tease gently, kissing the top of his head.

“Only around you,” he murmurs, his voice low but filled with affection as he pulls you even closer. His lips graze your neck again, lingering longer this time, and you can feel the smile still tugging at his lips.

He nuzzles further into the crook of your neck, his breath warm and steady now, no longer trying to hide his soft laughter. “I guess I do get a little jealous,” he finally admits, his voice quieter now. “I just don’t want anyone else thinkin’ they can have what’s mine.”

You smile and lean your head against his, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I’m always yours, Ben,” you whisper softly.

His body relaxes even more at your words, and he lets out a contented sigh. “Good,” he murmurs, still nestled into your neck, his face still rosy but his heart at ease. “Because I’m not lettin’ go.”

#benshelton #ben shelton #ben shelton x reader #atp tennis #azzie asks

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