#I didn’t even think about that until now | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

helenanell · 2 days

Text

Contempt of Court || Challengers

Art Donaldson X Fem!Reader

CW: 18+ MDNI. Alcoholism / substance abuse. Suicidal ideation. Mentions of car crash/ injury, infidelity (technically - Art is still married to Tashi, but they’re separated) Angst. Smut. A little toxic.

Wordcount: 10.8K

Notes: No use of y/n. Set after the events of the film. Reader is a Tashi stan (There’s too much Tashi Duncan erasure happening and I won’t stand for it.)

Summary: Still recovering from an injury that put your tennis career on pause, your publicist has landed you a deal to be an ambassador for Nike. What she doesn’t tell you, is that so is Art Donaldson: the player who bad-mouthed you in a live, post match interview two years ago. You only find out once it’s too late.

(This story was inspired by the dynamic between Billy and Daisy in Daisy Jones and The Six. But…make it tennis.)

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

For eight agonising weeks, your wrist has been encased in a cast, but now that it’s finally off, you feel far from relieved.

As the doctor had sawn into the plaster, producing a cloud of white dust like he was breaking into a bone instead of revealing a healed one, you had actually felt panicked.

After the car crash, you had spiralled into a pit dug with your own self-pity and pain. And once you’d reached the bottom, you’d staved off the encroaching darkness with alcohol and too many painkillers.

You’d taken drugs before at parties and drunk until you wiped your own memory, the consequence being waking up with your skull practically splitting open from pain. But there was something profoundly different about becoming intoxicated in the hopes of rendering yourself numb:

You hated yourself whilst you were doing it, and once the harmful buzz wore off, you hated yourself a little bit more.

You had become fast friends with shame in the past few months.

You have been desperate to play again, screaming, crying and practically tearing off your own skin with the need to get back to work- to not let yourself fall behind or your ranking suffer.

But, amongst the amalgamation of negatives there had been a sort of relief, too. Relief, because the choice had been taken away from you.

The accident hadn't been your fault and nor could you force your bone to heal faster, so for a brief period of time, you had convinced yourself nothing was your fault. For once, you couldn’t be blamed for your own fall from grace.

But now your bone had healed and if you didn’t give recovery your all, it would be your fault. If there was no triumphant comeback, it would be on you.

Another thing to fail at.

Another thing to lose.

All of which only added to your bafflement over your publicist’s insistence on coming over this morning, in order to discuss ‘a major opportunity’ that wasn’t related to a competition.

You had originally tried to worm out of it, but your coach had found out and given you the third degree.

You’re already tired at the thought of it and you don’t even know what it is yet. You don’t want to think about anything but tennis. You don’t have the energy for it.

In all honesty…you’re hanging on by a thread.

‘Drinking too much’ is a far too casual phrase for how you’ve been living: it has connotations of casualness- a glaring lack of stakes. For you, the stakes are unbelievably high.

You know you can’t afford to become alcohol dependent because even being a functioning alcoholic isn’t an option for you. The only way to function as an athlete—to maintain your career trajectory and the attain the US Open title—is to be at one hundred percent.

Mixing your painkillers with straight vodka isn’t one hundred percent: it’s a cry for fucking help. Except you can’t let anyone hear the cry, you need to stifle it.

It’s bad enough that pictures of you being rolled away from your totalled car in a gurney had been plastered over the internet for weeks after the accident. The alcoholic, pill popping tennis pro was a story that would never go away.

It would morph into an ugly sort of infamy: you’d been in the exclusive club of American sweethearts and heartthrobs who had been hounded so much by the ‘devoted’, that it had driven them to substance abuse to drown out the noise and fortify against the flashing lights.

So, no one could know. No one.

Which is why, as your publicist pulls into your driveway, you’re rushing to hide a half full bottle of vodka inside a hideously expensive—and also just hideous—vase that had been given to you as an engagement gift.

Two years ago, when your fiancé–and fellow tennis player–had been caught in 4k, kissing a barely legal actress from a HBO teen drama, you’d almost smashed the vase. But, something about destroying a gift from Serena Williams felt like spitting out the ambrosia a god had fed you from their very own hand.

So, while your ring had been thrown into a ravine (best not to dwell on that.) the vase had remained.

The doorbell rings much sooner than you’re prepared for. Who knew a five-foot-two woman in heels could move so quickly?

You run over to the door, chewing down on two pieces of gum you’d hastily shoved into your mouth to cover up the scent of alcohol. When you pull it open, you’re met with the stern face of your Publicist, Rebecca. She’s tiny but terrifying, her sharp features framed by a pitch black bob.

Sometimes, it does feel a bit like you’re talking to Edna Mode, but you’d never dare say that.

“Rebecca, hi!” You’re aware the greeting is too happy, and try not to grimace.

When you step back to allow her to enter, Rebecca frowns at you as she passes.

“Why are you fake smiling?” she questions. “Your cast is off, you should be actually happy.”

You drop the toothy grin, wincing with embarrassment as you follow her into the kitchen.

“I am happy about that, obviously.” You clear your throat, overly aware of how disingenuous you still seem. “What I’m not exactly overjoyed about, is whatever this ‘opportunity’ is.”

You watch as Rebecca grabs bottle of water from the fridge and then pulls out a stool to sit at the kitchen island. You follow suit, dropping down beside her.

“Well, you should be. I practically had to sell my soul to get them to pick you.”

You level her with an unimpressed look. “Wow, Rebecca, way to raise me up from rock bottom.”

She waves you away. “Oh, please! You hate when I coddle you.”

You huff, dropping your chin into hand and propping your elbow on the counter. “Okay, out with it then. What is it?”

Rebecca’s cheeks split with a blinding grin. “Nike.” She declares gleefully.

“Nike.”

Her smile dampens, disappointed you haven’t burst into happy tears. “Yes, Nike. You know…Just Do It.”

“Yes, I do. I’d just prefer not, you know…do it.”

Your publicist looks just about ready to slap you. “You’re kidding. It’s Nike.”

“Oh, is it? You haven’t mentioned that.”

Rebecca’s frown becomes a scowl and you think about ducking when she angrily snatches up her water bottle. But she doesn’t throw it, just waves it around as she begins to rant at you:

“Do you know how hard it was to get this?! They wanted Naomi Osaka but I convinced them to go for you instead. And christ knows they were hesitant after the US Open meltdown-”

“We agreed not to refer to it as a meltdown.” You cut in. “My therapist says it has negative connotations that, ‘make me feel a harmful degree of shame.’”

Rebecca scoffs. “You went to one session with that therapist and then fired her because you didn’t like that she drew you a diagram.”

“It was condescending: I’m not five, I don’t need visual aids.”

“Okay, just shut up!” Rebecca barks, smoothing down her still immaculate hair and taking a deep breath. “This isn’t actually up for discussion. You’re doing it.”

“I’m not doing it.”

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Two Weeks Later… )

‘Just Do It.’

It’s the first thing you see when you walk into the Nike office for the photoshoot.

The poster from a past campaign with Andy Murray has been blown up to ridiculous proportions and framed, hanging in on the first wall that greets anyone who enters.

“If they make mine that big I won’t be able to look at it. I’ll actually vomit. ”

When Rebecca–who is the epitome of a chatterbox–remains silent, you turn you head to look down at her. She’s already peering up at you, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Your eyes narrow with suspicion. “What have you done?”

Rebecca lets out a laugh laced with unadulterated fear. “Okay…so, any minute now you’re going to be super fucking pissed at me and you have every right to be, but remember that as you’ve already signed the contract, you don’t have a right to walk out of here.”

You stare her down, knowing it doesn’t take much intimidation for her to crack.

You don’t end up needing her to blabber, however, because not even five seconds later, the door you’d just come through swings open and a lone figure enters.

As you turn, you feel your publicist actually take a step away from you.

“Rebecca, I’m going to kill you.”

You’re not looking at her as you spit out the threat, your eyes are already boring into the man who’s noted your presence and is lingering just beyond the doorway.

Your history with Art Donaldson is far from extensive. In fact, while the trajectory of your careers have practically run parallel, the two of you have spoken maybe twice.

But then, almost two years ago, the U.S Open had happened.

Still dealing with the fall out of your fiance’s cheating scandal, you’d been in potentially the worst mental space of your life. And yet, you had still made it to the final.

But, during the match…well you’d sort of lost your shit. And then you’d just lost. It had been dramatic and mortifying.

Then, with the dust not even close to settling, things had gotten even worse.

Having just clinched the men’s singles trophy for himself, Art Donaldson had sat down for his live post-match interview and one of the first questions he’d been asked, was about your ‘comportment’ during the final.

You would never forget his answer:

'Well, obviously it’s a massive disappointment. In so many ways the match between those two women today was legendary. But it always stings when you see someone get in their own way. Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court: it’s infantile and disrespectful to staff and to the fans. It threatens to overshadow what was otherwise a phenomenal game of tennis for both of them.'

When he had then been pressed for his thoughts on what should be done in regards to sanctions, Art had simply said: ‘I think whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’

In a few minutes, Art had made you a subject of scorn as well as unwanted sympathy. He’d made you sound simultaneously contemptible and pitiable.

He was right, but he hadn’t needed to sound so sanctimonious when he’d said it. And telling the world your own mental anguish was probably torment enough, was just salt in the wound.

In your own defence, you had gone into the final right off the back of the announcement that your ex-fiancé’s new girlfriend was pregnant. And the dates had made it blindingly clear, that conception had happened whilst you were still with him.

You’d never felt so worthless or dehumanised. And then, after you’d practically killed yourself playing the match of your life, only to lose, Art fucking Donaldson had felt the need to call out your behaviour.

‘Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court.’

Anger ‘like that’ wasn’t something you’d brought to the competition in your overhead luggage, it was a parasite that had been poisoning your blood.

You’d thought that sort of self-cannibalising rage was in your past, bust as Art starts walking over to you, it rears its ugly head once more.

And he has the gall to smile at you. It’s an amicable, almost anticipatory smile.

You barely even register when Rebecca ducks away, muttering something about finding the photographer.

Art calls out your name as he stops before you, the corners of his eyes creasing as his smile intensifies. “It’s good to see you.”

“The feeling is not mutual.” You intone harshly.

Art’s smile doesn’t drop, it just becomes tighter, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “Ah- so you are still upset about what I said at the Open.”

You glare at him, forcing yourself to stop gritting your teeth lest they shatter. “What could possibly make you think that I wouldn't be?”

Art laughs softly, running a hand through his short blonde hair. “Well, because your coach and your publicist both assured me that you weren’t.”

Those fucking traitors.

It looks like you’ll be going into tomorrow with only your nutritionist and your physio left on your team.

“They lied.” You reply sharply.

Art tilts his head, his gaze becoming brazen in the way it assesses your face. “Clearly.”

“Well, obviously this isn’t happening.” You gesture between the two of you. “I’m not doing a photoshoot, let alone an entire campaign, with you.”

“I don’t see why it can’t go ahead.” Art declares casually, his lips tugging upward as he observes your indignation.

You take a step back, not trusting yourself not to lunge for him.

“Well, it’s a good thing I have little regard for your opinion then, isn’t it?”

Art's brows draw together, some irritation beginning to pollute his easy going demeanour. “You do care.”

“Excuse me?”

“You do care about my opinion, because f you didn’t, you wouldn’t still be this pissed over something I said years ago.

“Pissed?” You almost choke on the word. “You made me sound pathetic. Weak. You insulted my entire career!”

“I seem to recall saying that your match was ‘legendary.’ Phenomenal, is another word I used.”

If there wasn’t so much anger writhing in your gut, you might have rubbed it in his face that for something he’s outwardly dismissing, he seems to remember what he said about you very well.

You step up to him, closing the distance in two strides.

“‘Whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’ You said that about me in front of peers and fans in a live interview that was watched by thousands!”

“You’re telling me you don’t think you were out of line?” Art challenges, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning in.

You know he’s not wrong: it hadn’t been your finest hour. In fact, the morning after, with your behaviour laid bare in the cold light and already being picked over by commentators and tabloids, you had been able to acknowledge it may very well have been one of the worst hours you would ever have.

But you’d rather die than acknowledge that to Art.

“Oh, that’s fucking rich coming from you!” You hit back disparagingly.

Art’s fingers dig into his arms. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re a hypocrite, Art. I watched your match against Patrick Zweig at the…what was it- Phil’s Tire Town Challenger? Someone recorded it from the stands. Tell me, what emotion were you bringing to the court when you yelled ‘fuck you’ at him across the net?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not proposing a thesis, Art. This isn’t up for debate. I’m just telling you what I saw. And it seems to me, that you have some fucking anger issues of your own, so quit chewing me out over mine.”

“Chewing you out–” He splutters, his cheeks flushing with outrage. “Wow, you really do have a victim complex, huh?”

“Fuck you!” You seethe.

Your exclamation doesn’t dissuade Art, instead he gathers momentum:

“You’re acting like I should fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness over an entirely reasonable answer I gave to a question about your piss-poor behaviour. But I didn’t make you launch your racket across the court or cuss out the line judge. You’re not a tragic woman, or some wronged heroine, you’re a grown woman throwing a tantrum because I wasn’t very nice about her in an interview, two goddamn years ago!”

“Well, I’m a bitch and you’re a hypocrite, looks like neither of us should be tennis’ poster child.” You snap, pushing past him and heading for the door.

There was absolutely no chance you were doing this photoshoot. Nike could give Naomi Osaka another call.

Just as you’ve got past him, Art is following you, snagging your wrist with his hand. “Hey! I didn’t call you a bitch.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone. Badmouthing people in public forums is your move.”

You yank yourself out of his hold and with his eyes burning into the back of your head, you leave Art Donaldson alone in the lobby.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Three Weeks Later… )

In the intervening weeks since your confrontation with Art, you have discovered just how airtight employment contracts can be.

Nike should really give their lawyers a raise, because you have been assured that there is more chance of you sprouting wings, than being able to get out of the ad campaign.

You’d been forced back to the studio a week later with your tail between your legs, but while you’d felt genuinely apologetic over the inconvenience caused to Nike’s team, your fury at Art had only compounded.

Thankfully, the feeling had been mutual and the two of you had passed the entire shoot in utter silence. Neither of you had offered up so much as a hello or goodbye to the other, and while it had clearly been painfully awkward for everyone around you, it had worked out quite well.

Unfortunately, you and Art had been called back for a day of what they were calling ‘action shots.’

Which is why you’re currently at a country club, dressed in all of Nike’s new gear, being forced to actually play tennis against Art.

If it was anyone else, you would already have drawn attention to the fact that your wrist is in excruciating pain, but you refuse to falter in front of him.

Besides, as much as you’re loathe to admit it, playing against Art is exhilarating.

The team have just called for a break and somehow, despite the innumerable people that have been buzzing around you for the entire day, you and Art suddenly find yourselves alone at the side of the court.

You’ve done well at remaining civil with each other, but that’s only because you only said ‘hello’ and ‘ready’ before you’d started playing.

Unfortunately for you, Art seems to be in the mood to antagonise.

“I don’t get why this is making you so miserable.” Art says, dropping down onto the bench beside you with a shit-eating grin on his face.

You hold up the can in your hand, fingers biting into the condensation slick metal.

“I specifically asked for Tangerine La Croix and they’ve given me Pure.” You mock. You couldn't care less about what you’re drinking.

“Funny.” Art deadpans.

“And here was me thinking you’d jump at the chance to call me a diva.” You answer, donning a smirk of your own.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

Some genuine anger colours Art’s tone and it only feeds the fires of your own.

“What?”

Art grabs the can from your hand and maintains eye contact as he steals as a sip.

“You refuse to let go of a few critical, but very valid sentences I said about you in that interview and you’ve used them to construct a narrative about my dislike for you. I don’t dislike you.”

“Oh, you don’t? That’s good, because this amicable exchange is really making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”

Art groans, slumping back on the bench. He manspreads so wide that his knee knocks into yours.

“Can you not just enjoy yourself? It’s a beautiful day and we’re being paid to do what we’re great at.”

You wrinkle your nose and try to snatch back the can, but Art tightens his grip and the metal crumples as you both tighten your hold.

“Yeah, well, not everyone gets off on having their face on a billboard.” You sneer, almost falling back when Art suddenly lets go of the can.

It’s practically empty and completely deformed, so you slam it down onto the empty space beside you.

“How do you know that I do?”

“What?”

“How do you know that I get off on it?” He repeats glibly.

“Because, you’ve clearly wanted to retire for years and now that you have, you can monopolise on the popularity that your wife built up for you and live off clothing lines and ads for the rest of your life.”

“Being great at tennis built up my popularity.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you actually believe that, Art? So many phenomenal players go widely unknown for their entire careers. You are only The Art Donaldson instead of just plain old Art, because Tashi Duncan made you a brand. She’s responsible for your legacy.”

“She didn’t make me.”

“Maybe not, but she did mould you into what you are. You would have been just another generic Stanford whiteboy if she hadn’t decided to give you fucking form.”

“You talk about her like she’s God.”

“Are you telling me that’s not what it feels like when her attention is solely on you?” You challenge, but you don’t wait for an answer. “You know, I actually played her quite a lot when we were teenagers– we always ended up being us against each other in finals– and even then…it was like trying to play against an elemental force. Every time, without fail, there was a tiny part of me that just wanted to fall to my fucking knees in front of her. But I never did, instead it made my game better. She made my game better. Tashi put all she had into you after her injury, the least you could do is acknowledge what she’s done for you.

“You don’t have to tell me what I owe my wife.”

You scoff, rising to your feet. “I’m telling you what you owe your coach.”

You don’t actually know where you’re going as you walk away, only that you need it to be far from him.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Two Months Later… )

At the launch event for Nike’s new line, you’re standing in front of the massive poster that’s at the forefront of the campaign and swallowing down bile.

It’s a great picture, you’ll give them that: Your feet are practically lifting off the ground as you throw up the ball for a serve, your expression is contorted with a ruinous passion that portends some sort of violence. And across the net, there’s Art: he’s dropped into a crouch, ready to pounce once you send the ball his way. In the face of your fury, his anticipation comes fitted out with his signature smirk.

It’s not just a great photo, it’s phenomenal.

You want to tear it off the wall.

You’re on the verge of asking anyone if they have a pen so you can scribble over Art’s face, when the man himself appears beside you. In your peripheral vision you catch a glimpse of his sleek, all black suit, but you don’t turn to look at him.

“I’m not sure you’d get away with defacing it in front of so many people.”

Trying to suppress your eye roll would be a fruitless endeavour, so you turn to face Art, forcing him to bear witness to your indignation.

“You should know by now that I have little regard for decorum. You certainly like commenting on my lack of it.”

“I thought you’d still be hung up on that.”

“Yeah, well, some of us have follow through.” You give him a venomous smile. “How is retirement treating you?”

“Ah, I should have known.”

“Known what?”

“You see retirement is quitting. So, you’ll force yourself to continue well past the point you should, your game will get shittier and shittier, so by the time you’re forced to quit, people will be pitying you instead of remembering how phenomenal you were.”

There’s a compliment in there, but you’re not feeling generous of spirit enough to pluck it out of the insult.

“I know when to stop, Art. It’s just not now.” You answer coldly.

“Okay, when? Like- give me your timeline. You must have thought about it.”

“Not yet.”

This answer seems to really frustrate him and he just stares at you, a muscle in his jaw feathering as he grips his champagne flute.

“Do you think I didn’t notice how much your wrist was killing you when we played each other? Are you really going to wreck your body out of stubbornness?”

“You know, Art, what you did wasn’t bowing out at the perfect time, it was cowardice. You skipped right to the curtain call when you still had a last act left to perform. You never got that US Open trophy, did you?”

Art sighs, his gaze moving back to the photo of the two of you. "Yeah well, something tells me you won't either. Have a good night."

Then he's backing away, his stare lingering on you even as he lets the crowd reabsorb him.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( One Month Later… )

Had Tashi Duncan not been one of the people in your life that you most respected and admired, you wouldn’t even have considered attending the fundraising gala for her and Art’s foundation.

But you were, quite frankly, obsessed with her, so of course you had come.

Sitting in an uncomfortably tight dress at a table of people you don’t know and with a fair amount of alcohol circulating through your system, is quite possibly the most painstaking thing you’ve ever gone through.

Apart from the car crash. That had been pretty bad.

But you’re adamant you won’t think about the car crash tonight, or the fact that, somehow, your wrist seems to be getting worse; devolving to a state more dire than when the cast had first come off.

The meal—which you hadn’t been able to stomach—had come and gone and now the auction is beginning. Tashi is up on the stage, dazzling in the way that only she can and Art is standing at the bottom of the set of stairs that lead up to the platform.

Unfortunately, your table is very close to the front and you’re positioned right in his eyeline.

Art keeps stealing glances at you with an emotion you can’t place. You had tried to switch seats with the man across from you, but the asshole turned out to be a real stickler for assigned seating.

If only to distract yourself, you whip out your phone, resting it in your lap beneath the table.

The moment you open up Instagram, your heart drops into your stomach.

You thought you had expunged any remnants of your ex from your life, but it seems you’ve missed a mutual friend on Instagram, one who has just reposted his engagement announcement with his girlfriend and mother of his now one year old daughter.

That bastard has broken your heart and wrecked your head, but while your life just keeps getting worse, the universe has seen fit to bless him with everything he’s ever wanted.

The auction is already in full swing when you rise clumsily from your seat and weave through the tables, heading for the closest exit.

It’s only as you push open the door and begin to sway, that you realise you’re actually quite tipsy. You might have drunk a little too much before you’d left the house.

It’s freezing outside, but you can’t face going back for your coat, so, unsteady on your feet, you flee into the extensive gardens that surround the estate that’s acting as the gala’s venue.

You walk well past the point where the lawn lighting disappears and clamber over a fence that has ‘restricted area’ prominently posted in front of it.

You don’t know where you’re going, but as you stagger down the hill, your sadness is alleviated very slightly by the sight of a massive pond that you’re sure is beckoning to you.

You kick off your heels and drop down onto the bank, quick to put your feet into the water. Once you’re settled, you retrieve your hip flask from your clutch and begin to guzzle vodka in earnest.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

You turn and you find an incensed Art striding towards you. You’re more than a little delighted by the sight of mud splattered over the polished surface of his shoes.

“I was having some time to myself.”

“You needed to walk all the way down here to get it?”

You laugh caustically, gesturing at him. “Well…no. Obviously I should have walked even further away.”

Art huffs, entirely unimpressed. He takes a few steps further down the bank and holds out a hand beckoning you over.

“Come on, you need to come back inside.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, you offered tennis lessons with yourself as an auction item and you’re up soon. You need to be on stage.”

Ah. You’d forgotten about that.

“Why do I need to be seen? It’s not like they’re buying me.”

“You still can’t stay in there. Get out.”

“I’m not in it, Art. I’m just dangling my feet in the water.”

“Well, you can’t ‘dangle’ your feet in there, it’s a pond not a swimming pool.”

“I can’t?” You feign a bafflement as you look at your feet, submerged in the murky water. “I sort of already am?”

Art moves even closer but falters, his bright eyes becoming an invading force: his gaze takes hold of your edges and peels them back.

He can see inside.

“What’s wrong?” He probes, the harsher edges of his previous words now nowhere to be found.

“At the moment, it’s you.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not actually, but I’m getting there.”

Art’s eyes flick to the metal object glinting in your hand. “Is that a hip flask?”

“What a keen eye you have.” You mutter sardonically.

“Okay, I'm serious now, get out.”

“Oh, he’s being serious!” You mock, rising to your feet.

But you don’t move away from the pond. Instead, you turn and start walking backwards into the water you wobble when your bare feet sink into the mud, icy liquid seeping into the thin fabric of your silk dress.

Art lunges forward, closing the distance until he’s standing at the edge of the water. His hand darts out and he grabs your forearm.

“You’re too close to drunk to be near a body of water, let alone in one. You’ll drown yourself.”

Art plucks the hip flask from your fingers with his free hand and tosses it into the grass behind him, all without taking his eyes off you.

Then he seems to actually register where his hand is. He’s still gazing into your eyes as his thumb brushes over the scar above your wrist.

“Compound fracture.” You say on a bitter breath. “The bone went right through. Fucking drunk driver. Funny that, isn’t it? He crashed into me, fucked my career probably permanently and then I became a drunk to cope.”

Some of the hardness in Art’s expression melts away, but it pools into the bags beneath his eyes and the shadows beneath his cheekbones, making him look almost distraught. Once you realise it’s sadness--no, pity--for you, you wrench your wrist out of his grasp and wade further back into the pond.

You gasp, shocked as the frigid water wraps around your legs in an eager embrace. It’s like it’s clinging on, wanting to keep you forever.

You find the thought of it quite peaceful.

You think on Art’s words from months ago: he’s right, about you being too stubborn to know when to stop. You won’t retire until you’re physically falling apart.

But what if you just sink down into the water right now? You’d disappear and the memories would be of a great player gone too soon.

God, you didn’t realise you had such a large ego that you’d consider letting yourself drown just to save face.

Art is beyond unimpressed now. He’s furious.

“Get out.” You just smile at him, stepping further back. The water reaches your navel and you let your fingertips skim over the water. “I’m not kidding, get the fuck out. Now.”

“Will you just back off!” You erupt. “We’ve done the campaign, we’re not friends, there’s no reason for us to be involved.”

“None of that gives me a reason to leave you alone out here.”

“Why not?!” You protest desperately. “It’s not the ocean, I can’t be swept out to sea!”

“Get out of the water.”

“No.”

“Get out.”

“Get fucked.” You hit back, letting yourself sink back into the water.

As you move to float on your back, another frantic laugh bubbles up as you're enveloped by its icy grip. Your dress becomes heavier, a five thousand dollar weight around your body, urging you to sink lower.

You turn your head to the side so that you can see the surface of the water:

This far out of the city, the stars are no longer choked by smog and so are able to tear through the darkness. The water perfectly mirrors the sky, so much so that it’s like you’re swimming in the cosmos. If you open your mouth, you could take some of it into yourself.

You had struggled to get out of bed this morning, but now, in the quiet night, you have the chance to swallow a thousand stars–

Impudent splashing disrupts your peace.

Your head shoots up, water running in eager rivulets off your hair as you watch wide eyed, as Art drops into the water. His jacket and shoes have been discarded on the edge of the bank.

“What are you doing?”

Art doesn’t answer, instead he drives through the water towards you, his strides producing ripples that disturb the reflected constellations. Shooting stars.

You’re not very far out, so just as Art closes in on you, you plant your feet on the muddy bottom of the pond and stand up.

The fabric of your dress is dark and slick against your body like an oil spill. The breeze blows a tentative breath against you, causing your skin to pebble and your nipples to harden.

Art reaches for you but your hand flies out and you swat him away.

You push yourself further out, giggling at his expression as the water comes up to your chin.

Then Art’s diving after you, the white material of his shirt submerged in the water.

“Art, this is a pond, not a swimming pool.” You tease, amusement blooming.

In fact, you’re relishing the sight of his arms pushing through the water so much, that you forget to make another escape attempt.

Before you know it, Art is right up in front of you, his breath coasting over your face as he wraps an arm around your middle beneath the water.

You drive your feet into the mud, your smile growing as he looks exasperatedly up at sky. His fingers press into your side.

“This is so beyond funny.” He grouses, trying and failing to tug you closer.

Seeing as you’re not actually drunk, you’re not sure what comes over you, but you’re seized by a giddy, childlike urge.

You decide to give into it.

Art’s eyes widen slightly as you rush forward, pressing your chest right up against his. Then, you place one hand on each of his shoulders and push.

There’s a brief moment, where your face rises above Art and he gazes up at you, droplets of water rolling off your face and onto him. He’s looking at you in the same way you had been gazing up at the stars. Perhaps you’ve become one of them. Wouldn’t that be something?

Art realises too late what you’re going to do.

“Don’t you dare–”

You push all of your weight onto his shoulders and dunk him into the pond. His head goes under, short blonde locks floating up in the water.

You immediately let him go and when he comes up, spluttering for air, the hand not on your waist winds around the back of your neck, threading into the hair at the nape of your neck. He pulls you flush against him again.

When he speaks, it is a whisper you feel against your cheek. “You’re such an asshole.”

Your hands fall onto his waist beneath the water. “I know.”

You shriek as Art tips you back, his hand still cradling the back of your neck as he dunks your head into the water in retaliation. It feels like a baptism.

When you come back up, he's chuckling as you gasp for air.

“I had to do that.” Art defends.

He notices you scrambling to push soaked strands of hair out of your eyes and proceeds to help you, his hand brushing over your cheeks and forehead before returning your sight to you.

“I feel like you didn’t have to.” You splutter, fighting back a laugh of your own.

You’re suddenly glad for his grip on you- you’re far too flustered to stand firmly on your own two feet.

Art’s cheek’s dimple as he smiles, shaking his head at you. Your breath hitches.

When he’s unencumbered by negative emotion…Art shines.

He leans in again, his lips grazing the shell of your ear:

“Don’t start something you’re not prepared to finish, sweetheart.” Your breathing becomes even more laboured as he draws away, his nose briefly dragging against your cheek. “Now…get out of the goddamn pond.”

And then he’s pulling away, leaving you gaping after him as he moves back towards the bank.

His touch is an absence you really wish didn’t feel so profound

“Spoilsport.” You grumble. But you’re already moving after him.

The alcohol you did have in you has disappeared; shocked out of your system by the frigid water and the feel of Art’s hands.

You wade back towards the bank, your hip flask is nestled in the grass and glinting seductively in the moonlight.

With Art’s back to you, you let yourself stare as he drags himself out of the water. His shirt is stuck to his body and entirely see through, settling into the ridges of his muscled chest. The moon’s light shines through the fabric hanging from his sleeves, making it look like the membrane of wings.

As Art kneels on the grass, you blink rapidly as if he’s a vision you can dispel from your sight.

You can acknowledge he’s attractive- you’re not blind– but you can’t abide the yearning arising within you. You don’t have room for that in your life, for anyone, but especially not for him.

You finally reach the edge of the bank and then Art is kneeling at the edge, holding a hand out for you to take.

You consider him for a moment and process the newfound ease on his face. He seems almost serene.

You fight off a shiver that you blame on the cold and ignore his outstretched hand, pulling yourself out of the water unaided.

“Really?” Art bites out irritatedly, watching as you wander over to your hip flask and sit down right beside it. You take it into your hand and unscrew the cap.

When you bring it to your lips you look right into his eyes. “Really.”

You throw your head back, the path the vodka burns down your throat is a welcome discomfort. You had felt far too peace just now, floating in a sea of stars with Art.

But those weren’t stars, just a reflection of them. It was a trick. Nothing that could ever be real.

When you drop the now empty flask into your lap, there are tears in your eyes.

When was the last time you’d felt even close to the happiness you’d found in that water?

It wasn’t real.

A traitorous tear is already rolling down your cheek as you drop your eyes to your hands.

“Hey.” Art says softly. He kneels down beside you, one hand on your soaked back as the other plucks the flask out your lap. “What’s wrong?”

You make a noise that’s half sob, half laugh. “I already answered that question.”

“Yeah, except I know you’re full of shit.” When you look up at him, Art’s frown becomes something gentler. “I know I’m not your problem.”

You scoff, shoving his chest. He sways backwards, but drops down onto his knees, planting himself on the ground beside you. His hand is still on your back.

“Yes, you are actually.” You answer nastily. “You really are.”

“Just tell me.” Art whispers, ducking his head into your field of vision so you’re forced to look at him. His free hand settles on your cheek. “Tell me what’s wrong because this…is sort of scary.”

You lift your hands and clasp his cheeks, digging your fingers in. You’re overcome by a violent impulse to tear into his skin.

It would be far easier to draw blood than confront how you’re beginning to feel about him.

“Aww.” You croon. “Did I scare the poor little baby?”

“Stop it.” He scolds. His hands move to grasp your wrists but he doesn't pull you away, not even as you press your nails further in.

But you won’t stop- can’t stop. Your feelings have become spiteful and unruly, running away from you at a pace which you can’t hope to match.

You can’t take the strain. And because Art is the contributor to that is closest to you, it’s him you’re going to lash out at.

“No, really, I didn’t think you’d be such a pussy.” You forge on, spewing venom. “I scared you by getting in a pond? Grow the fuck up, Art.”

But Art doesn’t rise to it. His jaw doesn’t clench and his grip on you doesn’t tighten.

“This isn’t okay.” He says, tentative but assured. “You’re not okay.”

“No, I'm not!” You snap wrenching your wrists free. “But it’s got absolutely nothing to do with you.”

You try to rise to your feet, but Art doesn’t let you. He moves so he’s kneeling either side of you, his legs pressing into your thighs as his hands fall onto your shoulders. You can feel in the way his fingers press into you that he’s fighting the urge to shake sense into you.

You look up at him, slightly startled by his forcefulness. His back is facing the moon now and his drenched body is limned in silver.

Before you can berate yourself for even thinking about it, you’re winding your hand around his tie and dragging him down, smashing your lips against his.

You shouldn't be doing this, a large part of you doesn’t want to, but it feels like the only way to purge yourself of him. And what kills a bacteria faster than blazing heat?

Art lets out a warning groan, but your teeth nipping his bottom lip is all it takes to have him leaning in. Even your kiss feels like a fight, battling each other for control, pressing with bruising force.

Art crowds over you, guiding your back against the grass.

You let yourself fall.

As your back presses into the earth, one of his hands settles on the side of your neck as he drags the other up your leg. When he peels up the sodden material of your dress, his hand exploring your thigh, the cold air bites tauntingly against your rapidly heating skin.

Your hard nipples brush against his soaked t-shirt and the feeling is so tantalising, that you find your back arching, pressing yourself into him and chasing the sensation.

When you let out a moan into his mouth, Art draws back as if some unseen hand has pulled on him.

He’s still agonisingly close, his lips a hair's breadth away as he gazes down at you through heavy eyelids, water droplets running down his face from his hair. His breathing is ragged.

Art’s eyes close and with his sight lost to him, his lips drift closer to you again and his teeth nip at your chin. After placing a ghost of kiss over where he’s bitten, he takes a deep breath.

Then his eyes open, and his expression is blank. It makes you feel sick.

You’re burning up with want, but you can already see the realisation of your transgression settling into the very bones of Art. He’s about to spurn you, disdain no doubt working its way to the surface. So you have to get there first.

“Poor, sensitive Art, scared by a kiss.” You goad. The words are forced out and they feel malformed on your tongue. “Don’t worry your little head over it, it doesn’t mean anything.”

Art drops his eyes from you, shaking his hand as he pushes himself off up.

“Nice try, but I know what you’re doing.”

He mumbles it and doesn't give you a chance to acknowledge it befores he’s on his feet and walking away.

Tears prick insistently at the back of your eyes but you force them back, pressing the heels of your thumbs into them until it hurts.

You sit up, feeling leaves and blades of grass sticking to your exposed skin.

You feel the air shift behind you, and are startled when you peer over your shoulder and find Art standing at your back. He has his shoes back on and is gripping his dry jacket far too tightly.

You find your voice, but it’s weak: “What am I doing Art?”

He doesn’t meet your eye, instead he opens up the jacket in his hands and settles it over your shoulders. You sit there, stunned as he tugs it around your body. Then he leans down and over your shoulders, his breath on the side of your face as he deftly buttons the jacket up.

Art encloses you in the dry garment that carries the scent of him.

“You’re doing the same thing as me.” He says quietly. It sounds almost painful for him to talk. “Running away. I guess we’re both cowards.”

And then he’s gone, marching back up the bank without another word.

You’re left sitting there, wrapped in his jacket and staring out at the pond.

Not the night sky.

Just a pond.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Three Months Later… )

After your cast had first come off, Wimbledon had felt like an intimidating but still far off thing; a dark shape on the horizon, but one you had to squint to see. But then it moved closer, barreling towards you like a bat out of hell.

You’ve made great progress in your recovery, you really have…but all your extensive physiotherapy hasn’t been able to heal the nerve-damage you’d turned out to have- at least not in a timespan that’s workable for a professional athlete.

You’re done. Tennis career over.

And your worst fear has come true: it hadn’t been your choice. Injury has forced you out and the public discourse is rife with commiseration and useless, positive platitudes.

Art has been proved right. Everything would be so much better had you known when to quit. You had preferred ridicule to this.

But until you’d come to Wimbledon, it hadn’t really sunk in yet: you hadn’t had the moment of finality.

What closure has ended up feeling like, is the final nail in your coffin.

As you had watched the first matches of Wimbledon from the stands, Rebecca glancing at you constantly–presumably to check you weren’t about to burst into tears–you had felt as though you were being buried: each serve and volley another hand tossing dirt on top of the coffin, sealing you beneath the ground for good.

At least one part of your day has been successful. You have completed the challenge you’d set for yourself that morning, which was to not drink any alcohol until the evening.

It has been excruciating.

Evidence of your victory lays in your trembling hands as you fit your keycard into the door of your hotel room. You’re desperate for what you know sits waiting for you on the other side.

But then, just as the lock mechanism chirps to let you know you’ve been granted entry, someone calls your name.

Your keycard is left in the door as your fingers fall away from the handle and you turn to face Art. He’s stopped himself a safe distance from you and is gazing at you with what looks like…relief?

Of course you knew he was at Wimbledon–you’d narrowly avoided crossing paths with him a number of times already today–but to hear his voice and having his probing stare directed solely on you, is as debilitating as you remember.

You haven’t seen each other, or even spoken, since the night by–or rather in–the pond.

The only place the two of you are still together in any capacity, is on the Nike billboards that are still occupying space throughout the world.

And as if Art’s thoughts align with your own, he says:

“You pull an impressive disappearing act.” He steps closer.

“That suggests you went looking for me.” You counter, pleased with how detached you sound. “We both know you didn’t.”

“No. I didn’t.” Art replies frankly.

“So I didn’t disappear, did I? You just couldn’t see me.”

Art moves towards you some more, stopping an arms length away.

“It felt the same.” He utters lowly. “You were gone.”

You shrug halfheartedly. “So were you.”

Then you press your back into the door, fingers seeking out the handle, shaking now for a reason other than alcohol withdrawal.

You really don’t know if you’re running away or urging him on, but when you push open the door and duck inside, you do know that you’re not angry when he follows.

You put your back to the hallway door, expecting Art to move past you and head into the suite, but he doesn’t. At least not right away. Instead, he stops right in front of you, looking down at you as the door swings shut.

You would barely have to lift your hand and you’d be touching him.

You hate that he looks so good. He’s in simple navy dress pants, a white shirt sitting snugly on his chest, the top few buttons undone.

The two of you stand like that for a minute or so, and just as you realise that your breaths have practically synchronised, Art is moving away from you and wandering inside.

It’s only then, as he ventures deeper, that you remember what you’ve been so eager to get back into the room for. You curse yourself, letting your head fall back against the wall behind you.

Even if he hadn’t already seen them, it would be too late for you to hide the line of alcohol minis that you’d gathered from the bar cart.

You’d set them out earlier, the process almost meditative. It had been a promise to yourself: get through the day without drinking and you can have all of these once you’re alone.

But now they’re standing out in the open, displayed on the nearby desk like pieces knocked off a board in a game that you’ve been playing against yourself.

You watch helplessly as Art walks right over to them, his hands in his pockets. Your face flushes with shame.

Art cranes his neck back to look at you. You’re still pressed against the wall, afraid that if you take one step closer, you won’t be able to stop yourself from taking ten more. And you don’t want to be close to him when his face shifts into pity or revilement.

“You planning on drinking all of these?” Art asks, turning back to the bottles as if he knows his gaze is steadily undoing you and wants to grant a reprieve.

Eased slightly by the remarkable placidity of his tone, you’re able to answer calmly. But you still don’t move.

“That was the plan.”

Art lets out a non-committal hum. “Why?”

You laugh awkwardly, wringing your hands together. “I don’t know, why does anyone drink?”

“I don’t care about anyone, I'm asking about you.” His voice is firm, but the foundation of it is something less solid. His words shake on the way out.

You’re overcome with the urge to be honest. It’s actually a lot easier when he’s not looking at you.

“I drink because at some point in my life, every tiny thing became really difficult- like, embarrassingly difficult, to the point where I feel like a child again. And it turns out that ineptitude is easier to bear when you feel like you’ve imposed it on yourself. I drink because it makes me feel helpless…but, helpless by choice.”

The confession hangs suspended in the air, a horrifying, complicated marvel- like a beautiful butterfly now dead and pinned by its wings to a board.

Art speaks into the silence, his back still turned to you. “Do you want to forget? Is that part of it?”

“Forget what?” You’re struggling for breath now, his presence drawing all of the oxygen from the room.

He half-turns his head, blue eyes settling over you once more. “All of it.”

“There’s not enough alcohol in the world for that.” You say morosely.

You have learnt that getting drunk doesn’t rid you of all the thoughts that torment you in sobriety, it just pushes them further to the back. Even if you drink so much you can barely walk, the thoughts remain, banging on the barrier and demanding to be let back in.

Art doesn’t respond to that. He turns back to the little bottles and you watch as he reaches out a hand and knocks over the one closest to him. He pushes it forward, sending them all toppling one after the other like dominos. His eyes are set on them as they roll around on the table, a couple falling onto the plush carpet. And your eyes are set on him.

Then, he finally turns to properly face you, knocking the fallen bottles with his feet as he leans back against the table and crosses his arms against his chest.

He’s waiting, you realise. Waiting for you to speak. Waiting for you to make the first move. Wanting you to come to him.

You push off the wall and start walking towards him. “Why did you follow me in here, Art?”

He sighs, the corner of his lip pulling up with a melancholy smile. “Because you make me feel helpless.”

That almost stops you in your tracks, but you recover quickly, barely a footstep faltering as you advance on him. Your heartbeat is a warning drum in your ears.

Once you reach him, Art widens his legs, allowing you to step between them.

As you settle your hands on his thighs, his duck beneath your dress and come to rest on the bare flesh of the back of your legs. He draws you closer, making you fingers dig into his trousers to steady yourself.

You sigh, your eyes fluttering shut as he leans forward, brushing his lips against your exposed sternum.

You’re still flushed and sweating from the uncharacteristically blazing English sun and you shudder as Art’s tongue darts out lapping at the moisture there.

You rock forward, placing your chin on the top of his head, inadvertently pressing his mouth further into your skin. His lapping tongue turns into kisses, kisses that travel down onto the swell of your breasts and into the valley between them.

Even when he reaches the fabric of your dress, he doesnt let it stop him: Art’s lips close around your clothed nipple, wetting the thin fabric with his saliva. You let out a breathy moan into his hair as he moves onto the next one.

As Art works his mouth against you, you push your hands higher, letting your fingers brush the bulge in his pants before they’re settling on his belt buckle.

He says your name, each movement of his lips searing into your flesh.

“Do I make you feel helpless?” He asks, his hands moving up to curl in the sides of your underwear.

“No, Art. You don’t.”

As you undo his fly, he begins to pull your underwear down.

“Why?” He closes his mouth around your breast and bites down just enough to make your breath catch in your throat.

You remove one of your hands from his crotch and use it to grab the back of his neck, you pull him away from your chest, forcing him to look up at you as your other hand disappears into his trousers, palming his hardness.

Even as you step out of your underwear and kick it away, you’re starting to stroke him. His mouth falls open, sucking in a breath as gazes up at you as if you hung the moon.

“How could I feel helpless?” You goad, leaning in and resting your mouth beside his ear to whisper. “When I have so much power over you?”

Art’s initial answer is to buck up into your hand, chasing the friction you’re moving too slowly to give him, but when you laugh at his desperation, he’s surging up, wrapping his arms around your waist and spinning you.

In a flash, you’ve taken up his position: ass resting on the edge of the desk.

Before you can catch your breath, Art has his hands on your knees and is spreading your legs, exposing your bareness to him.

But apparently he still hasn’t got you where he wants, because his fingers then wrap around the back of your legs and he lifts you, placing you further back onto the wooden surface. More bottles roll off the edge and drop into the carpet.

Then, finally, Art’s eyes meet yours. His smirk makes a return.

“So…” He begins, his hands gathering up your dress and leaving it to bunch up at your waist. “I have absolutely no effect on you? None at all?”

“No-” You can’t even finish your thought let alone the word before his fingers are running through the wetness between your legs. Your instinct is to shut them, but his hips are in the way, so you only succeed in holding him firmly in place.

You are left to stare as he lifts his hand up, evidence of your arousal glistening on his fingers. Then, slowly enough that he can watch the realisation of what he’s doing dawn on your face, Art takes his fingers into his own mouth.

His eyes meet yours and do not shift away for even a second as he licks your wetness from his skin.

The tightness in your belly becomes almost too extreme to bear, and a throbbing begins between your legs.

“I want you to ask.” Art says, his fingers–now wet with his own saliva–drawing circles on your inner thigh. “I want you to ask me to fuck you.”

“I thought you were here because I make you feel helpless?” You try to sound taunting, but your voice is ragged with want. “Now you want to be in control?”

Art leans down and you expect an abrupt, bruising joining of your lips, but instead he kisses you slowly, tenderness in every gentle movement. His mouth is is still aligned with yours as he answers:

“It’s not about control, sweetheart. I just want to hear that you want me as much as I want you.”

You begin to kiss along his jaw, your sentence formed with words cushioned between the press of your lips:

“I want you to fuck me, Art.”

Art's fingers curl around your jaw, bringing your lips back to his as he frees himself from his pants with his other hand. Your kiss is languid but rapidly growing with force, passion driving pleasure ever closer to point of pain.

“Condom?” Art questions into your open mouth.

With his fingers digging into your chin, you can't shake your head so you’re forced to gather enough of your wits to speak again:

“Birth control.”

“Okay.” Art pecks your lips before lifting a hand and spitting onto it. Then he’s fisting himself in his hand and pressing inside of you.

Your legs immediately wrap around his waist, hooking together to pull him in even further.

Art lets out a shuddered breath, his head dropping to your shoulder as he settles himself inside of you.

He kisses and licks across your collarbone, only stopping when he comes across the thin strap of your dress. With a little growl, he takes it between his teeth, tugging it back and then letting it ping back into your skin.

You laugh, still adjusting to the feel of him inside of you as you move to pull down the top of your dress. But Art has other ideas. He stops you with a slow thrust, rolling his hips just enough to have your hands wrapping around his neck instead.

“Let me do it.” He’s giving a command and yet it sounds like a grovel.

Then, in unison, his fingers find the straps of your dress and he’s pulling them away, tugging the bodice down and exposing your breasts to him completely. His hands fall onto them immediately, palming the supple flesh and lifting them up higher so that he can kiss them even as he begins to rock into you.

Just as your heartbeat begins to find some sort of rhythm again, Art pulls out of you almost completely before driving back in. Your breath is knocked out of you and as he begins to thrust with controlled rapidity.

Your hands fall to his still covered ass and dissatisfied with the lack of contact, you push your fingers past the waistband and dig your nails into his naked flesh.

Art moans into your neck, clamping down with his teeth as he picks up his pace yet again.

“Art-” You call out, lost in the press of him inside you.

The table begins to shake so much that it’s slamming against the wall, the noise perfectly aligning with the sound of your hips slapping together.

“Tell me this doesn’t make you feel out of control.” Art pleads, his movements growing frenzied.

By this point you can hardly think straight, so you give in, his statement going unanswered as your head is thrown back in pleasure. Art chuckles, licking up the column of your neck.

“I think I got my answer.”

“Shut up.”

When Art laughs at you again, you remove your hands from his ass and grip his face instead, drawing his lips back up to yours. He opens wide, panting into your mouth before your tongues start to move together.

You stay like that, mouths joined and breaths shared as his thrusts become messier, his hands on your back beginning to tremble.

But you’re not close yet and he knows it. He reaches between you and presses his thumb into your sensitive bud, applying enough pressure that, combined with him driving into you, has you quickly coming undone.

You break the kiss, crying out as your body is wracked with convulsions.

Art smiles, his eyes drooping closed as he chases his own release. And it doesn’t take long. You’re still coming back to yourself when his hips stutter and his fingers dig into you. He lets go, spilling inside you.

You both go still. You press your face into his chest–his shirt now dappled with spots of sweat–as he places a kiss on the top of your head.

You’re both breathing heavily, reeling in the wake of your joining when your phone–tucked into your purse that you had dropped by the door–begins to ring

Still inside you, Art shifts, pressing closer as his lips begin to kiss a path down your cheek. “Don’t answer it.”

You lean back just enough to meet his eye and smile. “I’m not going to answer it.”

Art matches your grin as he leans down and gives your lips a peck. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson #challengers movie #art donaldson smut #mike faist #tashi duncan

490 notes · View notes

pshaven · 2 days

Text

NUDES I CAN'T SEND park sunghoon ౨ৎ

synopsis! after a drunken night of events you can’t remember, you find a park sunghoon at your front door with apologies you thought you’d never hear.

wc! 6.4k+

cw! angst (sawry..), toxic!sunghoon kinda, ex!sunghoon, jealous/possessive!heeseung makes an appearance, reader sent nudes while drunk, dom!sunghoon, he's handsy, dirty talk, pnv, oral (f!receiving), riding, no protection mentioned, sunghoon calls reader baby, sweet girl, multiple orgasms, not really much aftercare mentioned, ningning from aespa mentioned

previous > next > break the skin mlst

as your best friend, jay’s approval is almost as meaningful as your own parents.

so during a night out at your guys’ usual hanging pub with a couple of your friends, including your new boyfriend of two weeks, sunghoon, jay gave you an encouraging smile, “i’m glad you two found each other.”

right then and there— you knew it. sunghoon was your one and only, it would be detrimental to lose him, especially after jay expressed his happiness towards the two of you.

and one of the biggest bonuses, unlike your past relationships, sunghoon doesn’t care about you being best friends with jay. he’s understanding, takes his time to know jay as well, disregarding your close friendship with another man.

you always saw yourself as a lucky girl to have sunghoon by your side. sunghoon who stayed up late with you, helping you study for a class he’s never even took. sunghoon who found you sitting in the corner of the library alone, your textbook papers wrinkled and dried up tear stains on them. sunghoon who has the most handsomest smile you’ve ever laid eyes upon in your whole life…

to think you lost someone that special makes your heart ache.

jay struggled badly with trying to keep your spirits up, and all your girl friends did their best to drag you out of your room to do even the most miniscule things in effort to get your mind off the breakup.

two weeks turned into two months, then one year, then two years. it seemed as if nothing has changed. you’re still happy, right? sunghoon still makes you happy. but you’ve never had to question if you made him happy. you suppose— that was perhaps the first crack in your relationship.

then, everything felt so.. stagnant. almost boring, having done everything together until there was nothing else left to do. you think both of you were starting to feel the same way. perhaps the two of you were at different stages in life.

“what do you wanna eat for dinner?” you asked, sitting on the couch with your legs crossed as the both of you channel surf.

“i’m fine with anything, you can pick.”

you shrugged, “i’m okay with anything too.”

you didn’t think it’d be the final crack until everything shattered.

his brows furrowed, and you could almost see the agitated vein on his temple. “you’re okay with everything, as always,” he says, tone laced in sarcasm as a scoff left his lips.

you felt your eye twitch. “what was that?”

for a long time, and maybe even the first, a big fight broke out between the two of you. it quickly became a shouting match, fueled with hurtful words that neither of you truly meant.

“aren’t you tired?!” sunghoon sighed exasperatedly, running a frustrated hand through his messy hair. you felt tears welling up in your eyes— it’d been so long since you last cried ever since you met sunghoon. you’d never think he’d be the reason for your tears.

“no? what are you talking about?!” you argued back, but your voice was starting to lose its fight. “i-i don’t know what to do.. are you unhappy with me?”

sunghoon couldn’t look at you.

“i…”

his hesitance said it all.

“you should have said something sooner… th-then maybe we wouldn’t be here right now,” you mumble quietly, chewing on the inside of your cheek to will your tears from falling.

“but i want to be with you still!” sunghoon pleaded, quickly rushing to you as he placed his hands on your shoulders, his grip tight as if you were about to leave.

you don’t have the willpower to leave.

“you want to be with me… but you aren’t happy with me,” you frowned deeply, your head hanging down as you stare at your feet.

“i-i’ll try… i want to be happy with you. i need t-to…” he choked on his own words, his mind reeling for the right words to say.

you sniffle, and sunghoon feels his entire world shatter to pieces when you rest your forehead against his chest. “you should go…”

you’re joking— he thought. no tears were daring to roll down your cheeks, and that he knows is when you’re putting up an act.

he put up a fight. you don’t actually want him to leave, do you? but then you’re balling your fists up against his shirt, tugging on the fabric. “i don’t wanna— i can’t.. be the reason why you hold yourself back.”

so then what? what was he supposed to do when you seem so desperate to let him go, let him walk out your life? it hurt like a bitch, and the reason for your tears being because of him made it a little easier to leave. in his thought process, he thought you’d stop crying because of him. then maybe, in a week or two, you’ll call him again.

but that call never came.

sunghoon waited months for your contact to pop up on his screen, but by the third month, he unwillingly had to let you go. he was angry– sure… maybe it did sound like a real breakup but he thought it was just a hiccup, a bump in the road, like what most couples have. but it wasn’t, and he was frustrated that you seemed to let him go so easily.

he couldn’t.

sneaky texts to your close friends, even jay, to ask how you’re doing. if you’re doing okay. the only one who was really honest with him, the only one who didn’t tell sunghoon that you’re “doing just fine, don’t worry about it” was jay. jay, albeit hesitant to do this behind your back, he knew how much sunghoon meant to you, and seeing your defeated expression everyday wasn’t exactly ideal for him.

“she’s not doing well… can barely get her out the house,” jay had said over the phone to sunghoon, the former letting out a sigh. sunghoon said nothing back. “you.. you should probably move on too. this isn’t healthy for the both of you.”

sunghoon agreed, then quickly hung up.

like hell he would be able to move on from you.

“ning? ningninggg~” you slur, eyes squinted to look for your friend, clumsily tripping over some other drunken people’s feet. you’re mindlessly searching around the cramped living room for her until you spot the brunette out in the crowd.

“y/n, where have you been! i’ve been asking everyone where you went,” she frowns with worry, rubbing your arms that are warm already from the alcohol in your bloodstream. you give her a cheeky smile, leaning your head on her chest as you sway her around drunkenly.

she laughs at you warmly, playing with your hair as she lets you do whatever for a few minutes until you jump suddenly, grabbing both her shoulders, “i should text him.”

her brow only raises, “text…who?” her voice slightly teasing, knowing your past nights with a certain roommate and classmate. but then her eyes widen when she realizes who you really meant, and she shakes her head immediately. “no! absolutely not, y/n! give me that fucking phone right now, i swear to god,” she yells at you, but you’re already bolting away from her with your phone in the air.

ningning chases you down, gaining stares but you’re too out of it to care and ningning is too busy running after you. you fall over a group of randoms sitting on the couch, and ningning is left to apologize for you. “i am… so, so sorry…” she mumbles, quickly snatching your phone as you recover and putting it in her pocket. “my dear y/n, please get up so we can just go back home. i don’t know if i can bare anymore embarrassment.”

safe to say, she dragged you back into her home and forced you to drink water despite your lazy denial of i don’t need it! and i’m totally okay!

you shift around in the bed, a groan escaping your lips when you feel someone tugging at your arm. “y/n,” ningning shout-whispers, knowing your hangover is probably killing you. you groan again in response, shaking your head and mumbling something around the lines of “five more minutes, mom”.

she rolls her eyes at you, sighing before placing the glass of water down on her bedside table. “i gotta get to class. please drink this water and gatorade here before you leave. i better come back to no throw up on my carpet.” she tells you, albeit knowing that you’re only half listening and are going to forget everything she said ten minutes later.

you do get up eventually.. two hours later. you drink the water and take the gatorade with you before cleaning up her room that ningning so graciously let you sleep in. you take an uber back to your shared apartment with heeseung, trudging lazily up the stairs and hallway of your complex. you insert your key to only find that the door is left unlocked, and you frown, ready to scold your roommate of his bad habit of not locking the door.

“heeseung–!” you yell, stepping inside but you’re not met with your roommate’s face. instead, your questionable ex stands by the couch, in front of you.

your jaw wants to drop, your eyes want to widen, you want to scream profanities and maybe cry in your room later. but you somehow can’t, and you stare at him blankly.

“y/n!” your name is called, but with two different voices– your ex and your roommate. heeseung comes running out of the hallway, in which you assume he was in the bathroom earlier when you had just gotten home.

sunghoon turns his head to look at heeseung, his brows furrowed and a look of disdain on his face. you choose not to question it, knowing the expression he’s wearing all too well, so you move your attention to heeseung.

“what?” you ask, taking a step towards him as he gestures for you to go with him into the hall with a tilt of his head. you follow, exchanging a quick glance at sunghoon with your lips pursed into a line.

“what is he doing here?” you whisper, rubbing your temple as the pounding hangover begins to subside, but you think it’s about to come back sooner after seeing your ex in your living room.

heeseung rubs the nape of his neck, biting the inside of his cheek as he thinks of a reasonable explanation. he doesn’t know much about you and sunghoon, and he actually had only learned that he was your ex this morning. “uhmm… he showed up this morning.. and i was coming back from a class and he was just sitting out in the hall. he saw me approach the door and asked if you lived here. i then asked him, who are you, ‘cause i didn’t wanna give out your info! and then he said that he was your ex?? i didn’t even know you had one…” he rambles, mumbling the last part to himself but it doesn’t escape your ears.

you huff, slapping his arm, earning you an ouch! from him. “what the hell! so you knew he’s my ex and you still let him in?! you are a horrible roommate!” you scold, your lips curving into a deep frown.

“well… i thought that maybe you two had those ex’s but still friends kinda relationship…” heeseung shrugs his shoulders, giving you an awkward smile to try and save face. “i’m sorry, y/n! please forgive me,” he pouts suddenly, grabbing your hands and clasping them together with his.

you roll your eyes before bringing his hands to your lips. his eyes widen slightly, panicky as his eyes dart from the end of the hall to you. but the panic quickly leaves as it arrived, with you biting down on his hand and he hisses in pain. “fuck– i didn’t know you were into biting like that, y/n..”

“she is. i would know.”

both of your heads sharply turn to the intruding voice that joins the two of you in the hall, sunghoon with his arms crossed against his chest, leaning his side against the wall.

heeseung clears his throat after the silence that hung in the air, looking at you with softer eyes than before. he’s insinuating that he’ll be here, if anything went south between you and your ex. you give him a curt smile and nod, and heeseung takes a quick peek at sunghoon before he pecks a kiss on your cheek (that was very purposeful and much longer than what a peck should be).

heeseung leaves, his door shutting is the only sound between you two. you bite your cheek, clearly avoiding eye contact when sunghoon begins to step closer towards you, but not invading your space.

“you guys fucked, huh?”

your eyes shoot up at him. your mouth opens to retort, to say anything, but you’re stunned. sunghoon gives you a (sly) smile, eyes flicking between your eyes at the way your mouth quivers in nerves. “lucky guess,” he shrugs his shoulders, but it was more than just a lucky guess– there were too many signs of closeness that platonic roommates should not be having.

you still say nothing, waiting for him to speak and say what he wants from you, so that he can leave as soon as possible. you know well that small talk works nothing on sunghoon, and he only hates it more if not genuine.

“does he satisfy you?” he asks, and you feel like he’s poking at you, but his arms are still crossed as he interrogates you. you frown, nodding your head but sunghoon only scoffs, his smirk only growing more.

“ah… is that so?” he hums, unfolding his arms to dig out his phone from his pocket. he taps a few times on his screen before flipping the phone to show you.

and you feel immensely embarrassed. if you had the chance to gain a magical power right here, right now, you would pick invisibility without a question. you’re mortified at the sight of sunghoon’s screen– your naked body on full display. and not just one, not two, but four photos of you in different positions, in front of the mirror, you name it.

“well.. i gotta say, for someone who says they’re satisfied, i wonder why i got nudes then..” sunghoon muses, his canines showing through his grin.

a part of you wants to slap him, wipe that stupidly handsome grin off his face but you know that you’re the one that’s in the wrong in this situation. you sent your ex boyfriend nudes… you can’t even fathom the reason why you were trying to sendnudes in the first place, or what you were doing with sunghoon’s contact open. the two of you have been no-contact for a while since the mutual breakup, so why did your drunk mind decide that it was a good time to text him?

and it’s not like your sex life is dry… by any means! jake and heeseung can definitely vow for you, and the weird and sudden urge to prove sunghooon starts to take over you.

you scoff, “just wanted to show what you’ve been missing, i guess,” you shrug your shoulders, feigning confidence.

that’s when you forget how much sunghoon actually knows you– those two years didn’t go down the drain for nothing.

“i do miss it.” blunt as ever, sunghoon says it so flatly that it catches you off guard, your wide eyes meeting his sudden dark, bedroom eyes.

“oh.”

sunghoon struggles to bite back the smirk that grows on his face, taking another step towards you that starts to invade your senses– his cologne that he hasn’t changed since the day you first met. almost like a wave of nostalgia hits you, sunghoon decides to remind you what it feels like to have his lips on your skin.

but he’s not so nice, his lips barely grazing your jaw and his eyes hyper fixated on your own lips. your eyes dart up to read his face, but he’s so close, overwhelming you and clouding your mind, your hangover long forgotten.

“what about you?” he whispers, slightly pulling back just to tease you even more, not giving you what you want most.

“h-huh?” you ask, confused, already starting to feel dazed.

“you miss me too?”

honestly, you should be putting up more of a fight. the breakup was mutual, yes, but it still hurt like hell and you didn’t spend months picking your life back up and getting used to being single again. and you definitely know that jay would not approve, the man being your support system through it all no matter the multiple times you shut him out.

but a part of you just wants to think that maybe, just maybe, sunghoon is back for a reason. but you could also be gaslighting yourself for thinking that.. perhaps you want to feel less guilty about wanting to so badly indulge in sunghoon and your desires.

you were never known for having good self control, impulse usually taking over for most of your actions, and sunghoon knows that part of you very well to use it as an advantage.

“kinda,” you mumble, eyes avoiding his face as you feel your face grow a tad bit hot over the mere confession.

“kinda?” sunghoon hums, clicking his tongue as he shakes his head slightly. “i think you need a reminder, what do you think?”

before you could think– critically think about what the consequences are, you’re already nodding and all too familiar lips meet yours. soft and gentle to ease the both of you into it, having it been too long since the last time the two of you kissed. overwhelmed with the fluctuations of emotions that hit you, you practically moan into the kiss, causing him to bite your lower lip and earning a low groan from him.

the sound is enough to have your stomach churning, and like pavlov’s theory, your thighs clenching automatically. yeah, you definitely missed that– having sunghoon wrapped around your finger without having to do much.

“fuck…” he sighs, like he’s reminiscing an old memory but he might as well be, having almost forgotten how much you really affect him. a simple kiss that could pass as almost innocent (in his standards) has his pants tightening.

and you had forgotten how hot he sounds whenever he curses. before you realize it, you’re grabbing his wrist and taking him into your bedroom, door shutting closed behind him when you push his back into said door.

you quickly kiss him again, more feverishly and he’s fast to reciprocate and even chase after your lips when you even slightly pull back for a breath of air. his hands are roaming your body, getting familiar again with all your curves and marks that he’s studied for two years. he knows you love it when he gets grabby, so a tight hold on your waist has you moaning again into his mouth and you can feel his smile against your lips.

“lemme eat you out, baby,” sunghoon mumbles mid-kiss, his grip on your hips tightening a bit more to convey his need, his brows slightly furrowed and he looks like he might die if he doesn’t. and you decide to use it to your advantage.

“hmm, under one condition,” you say, holding up an index finger between the two of your faces to prevent him from kissing you again. sunghoon’s confused, but he nods either way. you move away from him, his hands reluctantly letting go of your waist but he follows your every move. you go onto your bed, still facing him as you make your way to the center. he’s still moving with you like he’s under a spell, a knee propping him up on your bed as he stays at the edge.

slowly, you peel your bottoms off, and like the entranced man sunghoon is, his eyes are following your hands, waiting for your next words. you gesture for him to come closer, legs spreading to allow him space but your panties are blocking what he really wants to see.

“apologize.”

what you want him to apologize for? you don’t really know yourself. maybe the years you wasted on him? for showing up out of the blue? the hold he still has on you after all the hard work you spent on getting over him? luckily, sunghoon doesn’t question it. he gets close to you, between your thighs as he eyes your face. he visibly gulps before licking his lips and he nods without saying a word.

his face is inches away from your pantyclad cunt, and you start to feel a bit impatient (even though it’s only been a few seconds). he bites his lip, face tilting upwards and the tip of his nose perfectly grazes your clit. you gasp softly, looking down at him with the help of your elbows propping you up.

“‘m sorry…” he murmurs softly, lips brushing against your pussy. he eyes you from below, through his thick lashes and you practically fold, your face growing hotter.

he brings a finger to your cunt, still playing through your panties and he’s enjoying this more than you, feeling you clench and unclench in anticipation. he can’t hide the way his lips curve upwards into a smug smirk, missing how cute you are under his touch.

his index finger curves underneath your panties, tugging it to the side to view your bare, wet cunt for him. he hums at the sight, licking his lips once again as if he was trying to hold himself back, eyes never departing from your pussy.

“missed her s’much…” he almost slurs, drunk and he hasn’t even gotten a taste yet. he flattens his tongue, pressing his hot mouth against your folds. you squirm slightly, unsure hands gripping at your bedsheets. “y’know how much i like it when you grab my hair.. please do it again,” he pulls away from you, leaving you the dissatisfaction of no friction.

so you do as he says, hands leaving your bed sheets as you tangle your fingers into his hair, forgetting just how soft and well-taken care of his hair is. he sighs when you tug slightly at the strands, the air blowing into your cunt and you buck your hips slightly. impatient, sunghoon attaches his lips to your cunt and begins urgently lapping up your juices.

you squeal, your hand unintentionally tugging harder and he groans into you. your taste alone has his eyes rolling to the back of his head, mind starting to reel at the reminder of how pliant you are for him.

“i’m sooo sorry…” he mumbles sweetly into your pussy, practically inhaling you with his hands and arms wrapped around your waist, keeping you pinned into the mattress. he feels you twitch, his tongue bullying its way into your entrance and nose grazing your sensitive bud.

you’re shaking at this point, your body and mind from being overwhelmed by the familiar sight of sunghoon between your thighs and his mumbled apologies into your pussy like he’s apologizing to it. “sorry…sorry, sorry,” he mindlessly slurs as he continues to slurp and lap at your juices.

as it turns out, no matter how over you think you are from sunghoon, he’ll always have you in a vice grip, especially when you come undone from his tongue alone. you moan obscenities, your hips fighting against sunghoon’s grasp on you, but your hands pulling at his hair strands tell him that you want him closer.

he moans into you, moving away from your dripping entrance and up to suck on your clit, encouraging your orgasm. you curse, his name falling out of your lips and sunghoon’s eyes don’t leave your face for a single millisecond, too obsessed with your cute, overstimulated expression.

he finally pulls away from you, a filthy pop! following as he catches his breath. you lay your head back down on the pillow, legs giving out on being spread after sunghoon has let you go from his hold. but the moment is short-lived, his hand coming quickly to your thigh. “what are you doing? i want more.”

and what sunghoon wants, he gets.

apparently, he wanted it three more times.

“wai– oh!” you whine, but your words fall on deaf ears as sunghoon is nose-deep in your cunt, eyes shut and visibly enjoying the feast laid for him. you’ve given up on fighting him two orgasms ago, knowing well that he’s done when he says so.

“wh..why are you so insatiable ri-right now..?” you ask through broken moans and heavy sighs. sunghoon finally opens his eyes, looking up at you. he acts like he’s pondering for a moment, but he knows the answer already– he just doesn’t want to pull away from your pussy yet.

“mmm.. told you already, baby,” he mutters, tongue still licking up your essence around your cunt, “missed you… need’a satisfy my taste buds.”

with that answer, he’s back into your pussy, except this time he gives you the pleasure of his fingers inserting inside you for the first time that night. you gasp, your free hand lurching down to reach for his wrist, feeling your orgasm suddenly approach you rapidly.

“oh..oh fuck, i’m–” you whine, but you ddon’t need to tell sunghoon twice, inserting another finger. and, of course he knows how much you love the feeling of being stretched, especially when it’s in preparation for accommodating his cock for you.

your head is instantly thrown back, your nails gripping his hand turning white as you cum around his fingers and on his tongue, legs threatening to close shut around his face (not that he’d complain).

his tongue swirls and plays with your swollen clit, fingers not relenting on you even as your back arches off the bed. “‘m here, baby, cum for me, last one, promise,” he mumbles to push you over the edge, “will never leave you again, ‘m so sorry, i’m sorry, baby.”

it’s magical, really, the way his words can do so much on their own. maybe it’s the rasp in his voice that you’ve never really gotten used to, even when the two of you were together– it always had an effect on you. but perhaps, it’s really just sunghoon who has that effect.

you come undone for the third time this morning, hand clasping over your mouth to save your embarrassment, not forgetting your roommate residing two rooms away from you. sunghoon finally detaches his lips from you, his fingers replacing your cunt for his mouth. he groans at the taste of your sin, the side of his face lazily laid on your thigh as you recover.

you watch him suck his own fingers lewdly, a feeling of jealousy washing over you — what you’re really jealous of, you’re not sure. perhaps his fingers? his mouth?

“what’re you thinkin’ about, sweetheart?” his words snapping you out of your gaze, but he knows damn well what’s running through your head.

you mumble a mere “nothing”, your head turning to the side to avoid his eyes. he hums at your reply before kneeling off the bed, the sudden dip lifting off the mattress causing you to look at him again.

sunghoon peels off his shirt and undoes his pants, and you had completely forgotten that he was still completely dressed throughout your nth orgasms of him just eating you out. you crawl up the bed a little, your elbows propping you up as you watch him.

he tilts his head to the side, looking at you with a cheeky grin plastered on his face. “what’s that shocked look for? you know i’m not done with you.”

that you do, having dealt with his insatiableness when the two of you were together plenty of times before. you chew on your bottom lip as he joins you back on the bed, settling between your legs once again. he leans close to you, his chest just hovering above yours and his face so unbearably close to yours.

“you do know i truly did miss you, right…” he mumbles, his eyes switching its gaze on your lips and your own eyes. you don’t say anything, but he leans in even more, causing a small squeak to leave your lips in surprise. he tsks, his gaze leaving you for a second as if he was embarrassed, “had to convince one of your friends to tell me if you were doing okay or not. you got some really loyal friends..” he sighs, finally pulling away from invading your space.

his words surprised you, your friends never once mentioning sunghoon texting them to ask about you. a twisted part makes you feel giddy that he was still checking up on you after all this time.

“y’know you could’ve just come to me… after your whole rooming situation,” he continues on, his words in a low whisper, like he’s unsure if he should be saying all of this in the first place.

“i was afraid you’d turn me away.. and i didn’t want to bother you,” you reply meekly, still looking at him even if he wasn’t. but at your words, he turns back to look at you.

“i could never say no to you.”

and you know it’s true, park sunghoon would never dare tell a lie to you.

the silence engulfs the both of you for a minute before a small smile makes its way onto your lips. “i mean, if you’re just jealous that i’m rooming with another guy, you could just say that.”

his eyes widen slightly, a failed stifled smirk growing on his face. “ah, you always read me like a book, baby,” he hums, his hands trailing up your thighs and spreading them open.

you yelp when he tugs you closer to his torso, grabbing a hold of your thighs and lifting your leg above to rest on his shoulder. the tip of his cock barely brushes against your pussy, your hips already needily bucking for attention. he tsks at you, squeezing your thigh to get you to pay attention to him.

“please… hoon,” you give him a cute pout, one that he typically always falls for. but he seems to be stubborn today, intending on dragging out this long awaited moment.

“nah, don’t tell me what to do.”

you’re whining again, but he quickly shuts you up when he guides his tip to brush against your sensitive clit, a sigh leaving your lips. he repeats this action, your juices coating his cock and making it glisten under the sun peeking through your blinds.

“fuck..” he groans, slightly shaking his head as if to snap himself out of a daze, “can’t believe i even survived without you.”

his words hit you like a trainwreck, your head thrown back as you thrust your hips upwards, his tip catching at your entrance and slipping in slightly due to your slickness.

“hahh~ oh— feels good, more, p-please!” you beg, pleading at him with your eyes, causing him to grin and place a kiss on your leg that's resting on his shoulder.

“lucky i missed you— and this cute pussy,” sunghoon grumbles before bottoming all the way in, both of you moaning in relief into each other’s neck. he starts off slow, very much opposite to how the two of you used to have sex. but you suppose makeup sex to sunghoon is like this, not that you mind.

the two of you are already panting like animals in heat, caught up in each other’s body warmth and the way he stretches your walls out, your cunt accommodating the familiarity of your ex’s cock. sunghoon cages your head in with his arms, leaning his forehead against yours.

like you’re making love to each other, the eye contact you two hold is scary as his thrusts start to get harder and deeper, the skin on skin contact is loud and echoing throughout your bedroom.

“fuuckk,” sunghoon drawls, breaking eye contact with you first to squeeze his eyes shut, enjoying your gummy walls suck him in. you whimper, his moans having a well enough effect on your body as you feel your arousal stick to your thighs and his pelvis.

you pull him into a needy kiss, hushed moans being swallowed by the both of you to keep the noise level to a minimum (not that it’s really helping). the kiss is sloppy, spit drooling from the corner of your mouth as sunghoon speeds up.

“mmgh– oh fuck!” you whine, starting to feel how deep he really is. you swear he grew bigger.

sunghoon moves his hands to caress your hips and thighs, cherishing what used to be his. he moves his lips down to your neck, peppering wet kisses at your pulse point , causing shivers to run down your spine.

“nn-no, stop,” you giggle slightly, the sensitivity making you pull away from him but sunghoon doesn’t budge, his sharp canines dragging down to your collarbone. “you’re so cute, god..” he mutters, lifting body up as well as pulling your thighs up together, placing soft kisses at your ankle. “m’gonna fuck you like you deserve to, sweet girl.”

you don’t get a word out, a gasp pulled out of you as he thrusts roughly, the new angle making you feel like he’s in your stomach. you slap a mouth over your hand in fear of heeseung hearing too much from his room. sunghoon grins at you, canine peeking under his lip.

“no, no… what’re you doin’? he should hear you, so he knows what you sound like when you get properly fucked…” his last words said sharply, followed by even sharper thrusts that make you squeal even through your palm.

his brows are furrowed now, concentration fully on you as he focuses on your pleasure. his hand snakes down around your thighs, his thumb swiping at your sensitive clit. you let out a whine, the palm over your mouth long forgotten as you grip his forearm.

“ooh~” he hums, a deep chuckle leaving his lips, “you’re tightening up.. my baby is gonna cum, aren’t you?” he taunts, a brow cocking in question as a smirk appears on his face. you nod, your words being swallowed by your own moans and whines. you’re scratching up his forearm, not that he minds– he’s never minded when you mark him as yours.

you can’t even give him a warning, your orgasm crashing over you, splotches of white invading your vision as you toss your head back. sunghoon releases a groan, your walls clenching and unclenching around his cock causing him to pound into you faster.

he lets out another chuckle at your shaking body, his finger letting your clit go. he grabs onto your arms, pulling you up towards him. you instinctively wrap your arms around him, his cock resting deep inside you. your chest heaves up and down, resting your head on his shoulder.

sunghoon hums, “tapping out now? you used to last much longer…” he says, feigning a thoughtful tone to tease you. you pout, raising your head. you are tired, yes… but sunghoon always knows how to provoke you into continuing.

“i-i’m not,” you frown, suddenly raising your hips then bouncing back down on his cock. he sucks in a breath, leaning back slightly and using his arms to prop himself up.

“mmm, okay… i’ll give you two minutes before you’re whining, tellin’ me you’re too tired. ‘m gonna have to do all the work again,” he sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes sassily at you.

you slap his chest before looping your arm around his neck again. you don’t retort back– you’ll prove him wrong with just your actions. steadily bouncing up and down on his cock to create a nice pace for you, it’s not long before sunghoon is groaning out your name.

easily entranced by your bouncing tits in front of him, he wraps his lips around your nipple, swirling his tongue around it. you whine, your hips twitching in urge to grind on him rather than bounce, but you resist as your mission is to make your ex lover cum.

your hands tangle into his undercut, scratching as his scalp and back as you continue to ride him, the squelching of your cunt meeting his cock making the two of you even more needier. “oh fuuckk,” sunghoon almost whines, tearing his lips apart from your nipple. “don’t stop, juuust like that.”

your thighs are getting tired and starting to burn, but the twitching of his cock inside you keeps you going, knowing that he’s not too far off from his orgasm. slamming your hips down harder onto him, you grab his face and pull him into another messy kiss, since you know that sloppy kisses always get him even more worked up.

and you’re right, as sunghoon’s hips thrust back up into you, sloppily pounding as he holds your body still to hover above him, using you. but he doesn’t relent– making you cum only once on his cock? that’s never happened and he intends on never letting it happen. his hand once again sneaks down, rubbing your swollen and overstimulated clit. you cry out into his mouth, him easily shushing you up again as he pushes his tongue inside your mouth.

you both arrive at your climax, sunghoon groaning out your name against your lips as you grind hopelessly against him.

the two of you still are engaging in a kiss, less sloppier and more soft. pulling away to finally properly catch your breath, sunghoon rubs soothingly along your hips and thighs.

shouldn’t this be when regret starts flooding your mind and body? you should probably be freaking out now, telling sunghoon to leave and to never speak again. but.. you don’t feel the regret washing over you. maybe a little guilt, but it’s mostly because you told jay you would never be in contact with sunghoon again. and the fact that you told jay you blocked him, which you clearly did not, leading you to your current situation of being wrapped in his arms.

you’re a little too comfortable right now, listening to sunghoon’s soft breathing as the two of you embrace each other. you almost want to break down in tears, beg for him back, but that’s definitely the last thing that you should be doing. you need to consult with someone, and that someone being your best friend.

#enhypen smut #enhypen x reader #enhypen fanfic #enhypen hard hours #enhypen hard thoughts #sunghoon smut #kpop smut #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon fanfic #sunghoon fluff #sunghoon angst #park sunghoon #enhypen fluff #enhypen angst #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios #sunghoon

628 notes · View notes

phantomrose96 · 1 day

Text

Sham Sacrifice: Chapter 2

(Sham Sacrifice: Chapter 1)

Chapter 2, because @ciestess voiced an idea that absolutely consumed my entire mind and I could not rest until I made this

...

Danny’s eyes tracked the swing of gunfire raining bullets across the horizon. Tucker reloaded, crouched, dodged left and pivoted, another blast of bullet confetti launched through a gaggle of zombie heads. He tossed the magazine and reloaded. Click. Ching. Danny flinched when a zombie smashed a hammer clean through Tucker’s head.

“God. Fucking…” Tucker pulled out of his hunch. He unclamped his fingers from his controller like bug legs unfurling. He extended the controller to Danny, bouncing it in his grip. “Your turn.”

“Huh?” Danny asked, as if he hadn’t been watching Tucker’s game the whole time.

“You. You’re up. I died.”

Danny accepted the controller, reloaded the screen, and jogged about a hundred feet forward before the first horde of zombies took him out football-style from the left. The death screen rolled.

“Oops,” Danny said.

“Not your best work.” And Tucker took the controller back. Tucker shot a few spare glances to Danny while the level restart loaded in. “Is it Vlad?”

“No. Well, yes,” Danny answered, flopping back into his normal position on the Foley attic armchair. Tucker’s mom had planned to toss it ages ago, before it became Danny’s chair. “But at least he left when my parents went all zombie mode into the basement.” Danny picked absently at the scabs of leather flaking from the armrest. “It was just weird.”

“I don’t mean this as an insult, but it’s definitely not the first time your dad’s gotten some math wrong,” Tucker said. “He blows up like three things a week doesn’t he?”

“He does. But he doesn’t care when he gets that math wrong. This one was like I broke something important.” Danny’s expression soured, and he picked a leather flake clean off the chair. “Vlad did, I mean.”

“Does any of the math actually work?” Sam offered from Tucker’s desk. She leaned an elbow around the back of his chair, head tilted to Danny. A pencil dangled from her loose fingers, nib-half worn to the History of an Invention report she was actually working on. Tucker had half-assed his earlier in the day about the palm pilot. Danny had not done his. “Like, it’s all crackpot theory, right? Do ghosts even follow math?”

“I think they follow some math. It’s not magic that makes the ecto-bazookas work, or the Fenton-phones work, or—well the thermos DIDN’T work—until I made it work.”

The unspoken thing Danny had been not-quite-saying hung in the air. He said it this time.

“So I’m wondering if I did it. Like the Fenton thermos. And now maybe they’re gonna do the math all over and realize the missing piece of the equation is one half-ghost son.”

“Well the order is backwards, for starters,” Sam said. “Thermos worked because you pumped ghost-energy into it. How would you have done that to the portal? You were human when you walked in.”

“Sam’s right. What do you think you brought to the table exactly? Button-slapping abilities?” Tucker loaded up the next level. “It was their portal, and their math, and it worked. There’s a million-billion kinds of math and they probably just forgot one thing.”

Tucker took a headshot and died. Mechanically, he handed the controller back to Danny.

“Yeah, probably.”

“Ask Vlad. He’s got a portal.”

“Like Vlad’s gonna tell me.”

“Just promise to be his diligent little son minion or whatever. He’s easy. Wait, let me do the next level. You know I like the cyberpunk levels.”

“It’s not your turn,” Danny said, reeling the controller just out of Tucker’s wiggling grasp.

“I’ll let you do two in a row for your next turn.”

Danny knocked Tucker away, distracted just long enough for a zombie cyberbeam to launch from the horizon and take him out through the head.

The screen washed sepia. Danny stared at it. You died.

…

Danny hadn’t really meant to stay the night at Tucker’s place. They’d just gotten really far in Man vs. Zombie, and Sam had gone home, and Danny was just resting his eyes between his turns with the controller.

So when he woke to the bright strip of sunlight beaming into his eyes through the attic skylight, his first thought was Fuck.

He was awake, here, morning, school. Fuck he had not actually done his History of Invention report, despite the stupid amount of grief it had already caused him this weekend. He pulled his face out of the armrest, now pineapple-patterned from the decaying leather, and pawed for his phone fallen on the floor. If it was still early enough, he could maybe still afford to desperately half-ass something before sixth period science.

He flipped his phone open. A text from Jazz. “Don’t come home. Make up an excuse.”

“…Fuck,” Danny whispered, through the sensation of his heart launching itself into his throat.

He scrambled upright, whole body shaking at the mercy of adrenaline shock so soon after being pulled from dead sleep. His mouth was dry, teeth unbrushed, wearing his old clothes from yesterday, report not done, Don’t come home, Don’t come home, Don’t come home.

They knew. He’d fucked it up. Somehow they knew. The math. Something. And it had to be with guns blazing, because Jazz would not send that text if they’d taken the “We accept you” angle.

Were they coming for him? On their way here? Tracking by his phone? Did they like Mrs. Foley enough to not SWAT-slam her against the wall when she opened the door for them so they could come capture the ghost pretending to be their son?

Fuck.

Danny was upright. Danny was standing. Danny was shaking. Danny wasn’t actually sure what the next thing was he was supposed to do.

Tucker’s ball of blankets rustled from the couch. “Mmph?” he asked, articulately.

“I have to. Go deal with my parents, I think,” Danny said, because any plan felt a little better than no plan. “I think they know.”

Danny was a ghost. Danny was gone. Tucker sat upright, alone, blinking himself awake. He was staring at the You Died sepia screen still displayed on monitor, now burnt into the plasma of the tv.

…

Danny paused with his human hand slick on the Fenton front door. The gears in his mind turned as his plan quickly unraveled into no-plan. He had no plan, right? What was his plan? Handle this Man vs Zombie style—open the front door ready to dodge wide, because both zombies and parents liked to camp behind closed doors with bazookas at the ready?

“—absolutely absurd, and entirely unscientific, with no probability of being true. It goes against everything we know about neurology.”

Oh, Jazz. Was Jazz enough of a bazooka-deterrent? Probably not. Knowing his parents.

Danny turned the knob. His heart hammered. If bazookas, dodge left.

The first thing he noticed was in fact the no-bazookas. It was what he was most looking for. And so it was Jazz’s expression he did not notice until second—whites of her eyes wide, snapped to Danny, with a look that would be accusatory if worry hadn’t won that battle. Her cheeks were pale. Her hair was unbrushed.

He noticed his parents third. Compulsively, he rocked back onto his right foot, still outside the doorway, still outside the threshold of the Fenton family household.

Seeing his parents tired was of absolutely no shock-value to Danny. It was at least a twice-per-month tradition to see them haul themselves up from the basement sweaty and glaze-eyed at 7am, babbling excitement about some new ecto-spectral-hoozy-whatsits whose concept had shimmed into their minds at 8pm and now existed, fully operational, 11 nonstop hours later.

So it wasn’t the exhaustion on their face. It wasn’t the stagnant smell of sweat or the paleness of their faces or the stains on their clothes.

It was the way they looked at him. Like their whole world had fallen apart with his foot passing over the doorstep.

“Danny,” Jazz said, choked, a break in the silence. “Things are…! A little weird here. So maybe, if you wanna just get to school, I’ll finish clearing up—there’s a misunderstanding Mom and Dad have with their math. I am state finalist in Math League and have been studying college-level calculus in preparation for school applications so I’ve offered to help them fix their math, or prove to them—”

“Danny,” Maddie said, an echo of Jazz, but it felt worse. Danny scanned her hands for anything pointed enough to be a weapon. They were empty. “Danny can I just ask you something honestly, just quickly? Jazz is right. I’m just trying to clear up an issue with our math. And I won’t be mad. Whatever the answer is, I won’t be mad. I just want an honest answer.”

She stepped closer. Danny fought the urge to match her with a step backwards. Her eyes roved over him in a starved way, looking for something.

“Were you there when the portal turned on?” she asked.

“No, I wasn’t,” Danny answered. He wasn’t sure what to do with his face to make it look convincing. “It just. It needed some time to boot up, or something, right? That’s what you two said.”

“That was our guess ,but we don’t really know. The security tapes are wiped. We tried to make them EMF-resilient but a very, very strong blast of EMF could still corrupt them.”

“Yeah. I mean the portal’s gonna do that, right? When it turned on? Ripping open the Ghost Zone that’s—gotta be huge EMF.” Danny’s focus bounced between his mother’s eyes. “Just a guess. I really don’t know. I was in bed, already, whenever the portal started working.”

Left eye. Right eye. Why was she looking at him like that? Like she was sad. Was this part a trick? Make Danny let his guard down, go hey Mom need a hug? and that’s when the bazooka-whipping starts? It made his ribs feel scratchy. Stop looking at me like that.

“Have you felt anything weird at all, since the portal started working? Any gaps in your memory? Any parts of you that don’t feel right? Is there any part of you that feels like it’s changed in a way you can’t explain?”

She reached a hand out. Danny instinctively recoiled.

“Uh, yeah. They taught us about this in health class. They call it ‘puberty’ there.”

“Danny,” Jack said, and his voice was scratchy from disuse, from a long and uncharacteristic amount of time spent not speaking. “Did you die in the machine?”

A beat. A moment. Like when the zombie sends a hammer through your head.

“I’M alive!” Danny declared with a crack in his voice, with hands slammed to his chest. “Look at me. What are you talking about?”

“It’s the only math that works,” Jack continued, his words like chalk, his voice too dead. He looked too much at Danny. “If one of you two walked into the portal, and died in it. And I don’t think it was Jazz.”

This was bad. This was weird. Danny had ghost powers, sure. ‘They can’t kill me I’m already dead,’ was a funny joke sometimes. But it was funny as a joke. He was a ghost sham, really. A faker, a LARPer, whatever Tucker had called it. He was a human who was just kind of a freak now. More of a freak than he already was. He looked dead, for someone who was super-duper still alive.

He’d buried that worry, already. They weren’t allowed to bring it back.

“Look… at me!” Danny continued, mouth dry. He threw his arms wide. “Look how super alive I am! I’m awake! Using energy! Eating food and sleeping with my human body. I’ve got flesh and blood and bones and stuff! I’m not a ghost-expert but ghosts don’t have that.”

This was weird. This made Danny feel like something was scratching to get free from inside his rib cage. It twisted his entrails. Sure Tucker and Sam had thought he was dead, for those first horrible few minutes, but then he changed back to a human and the nightmare ended there. Jazz never called him dead. The ghosts called him freak and halfa and whelp, but never ‘one of them.’ That was his whole thing: being different from the ghosts who became ghosts by something so normal as dying.

He was not dead.

“If you died in the portal, your ghost wouldn’t have been ripped out of your body. It would have been allowed to stay, and then you’d be…” Jack hesitated. “I don’t know what you’d be, but you wouldn’t be alive.”

“Dad,” Jazz said, and she stood herself bodily between Danny and Jack. “What an absolutely messed up out-of-line thing to say to your son! You don’t know that! Dad you’re tired, and just because you weren’t able to solve your math problem in one night doesn’t mean you get to treat Danny like this! I said I’d help you with your math! Now apologize to Danny.”

Jazz looked over her shoulder to Danny, her expression falling at the sight of Danny’s face.

Danny backed up over the door threshold. He shook his head. “I’m not comfortable with this. This is weird. I’m gonna go to school now.”

“Danny, I promise they’re just—”

Danny turned on heel. No backpack, no change of clothes. He took to the street without a single school supply and moved, and moved.

It was supposed to be guns-blazing. Molecule by molecule. Headshot you died. He’d prepared for that this whole time, in the shower, in his dreams, in his daydreams in class. He’d duck and dodge and explain himself over and over until they understood him.

Danny wasn’t sure he was capable of explaining himself anymore.

…

Danny knocked the heavy iron knocker. He was in ghost form, as a threat. He wondered if he still smelled like yesterday’s sweat now that he wasn’t wearing yesterday’s clothes. Now he was wearing the clothes he died in.

No one answered the door. Danny phased himself in.

“Vlad!” he called, and his words echoed along the slope of the two elaborate winding staircases that twirled and met at the top like caduceus. Gold-plated banisters. A security camera buried somewhere in the ceiling, no doubt.

Danny phased into the library. His eyes roved the three stories of bookshelves wrapping the perimeter like a sheath. Gaudy. Audacious. Like Vlad would ever read that much. Danny racked his brain because some something in here was the secret to opening Vlad’s laboratory. Jazz had told him. Some gold something to be touched, and pressed down, or pushed up? Or it opened to a button. Or a keypad, maybe.

Danny spat a curse. He was being stupid. He was frazzled. He wasn’t thinking straight.

He dove into the floor below. Intangibility was the only key he needed.

The sheetrock was cold, even when he wasn’t touching it. The darkness was so piercing it made static jump in his vision, some weird trick of the brain Jazz had explained where, in the absence of all light, the brain hallucinates its own. It came with a sensation of pressure against his eyeballs, and a complete disorientation of direction, and he simply just kept going down.

Danny emerged into a wash of cold air. Cold like metal was cold. The low lights of dials and clicking machines were bright to his eyes previously dunked into the pitchest nothing. He drank it in, eyes grateful for light no matter how little, inner ear grateful for orientation that had left his head swimming and his stomach tight.

His feet tapped down to the stone ground, and the air that breezed past him was chilled.

“Vlad!” Danny called again.

Nothing.

He moved by the floor lighting, which ran in trim along the perimeter of the laboratory rooms. It lit things from beneath, made machines gaunt and specimens into sharp geometries of darkness and flesh. It made the Fenton lab feel warm in a way Danny had never considered it warm.

His feet clacked. His breath puffed.

“Vlad!”

He followed light, followed a wash of green miasma percolating from some far room and catching on the particulate of water and dust that disturbed with the air currents. Danny disturbed it too, walking through, wearing its shade of green which his shadow robbed from the wall behind him.

“Vlad. I swear to god Vlad.”

He crossed the threshold of the portal room, where the dusting of green ambience became a medallion wash of golden-green coating, painting every surface of the room. The Fenton lab was one single expansive room, portal anchored into the far wall and facing all the dead and empty air in front of it. This was different. A much smaller room, walled on all sides save for the simple doorway, and each surface reflected the color back deeper and heavier. It was like a fishtank in the wall of an aquarium lit radiant aqua-blue by all the lights within, but green instead, pure ecto-green.

Danny approached the open portal. He stared into its placid swirls, mesmerized, and scared of it, in a way he hadn’t previously felt about the portal in the Fenton basement.

“Ah, seems the cat is a good mouser after all, it dragged you in my boy.” The words came sing-song. They came spine-shivering for Danny, who felt them like hot breath on his shoulder and reeled back, pivoted, fire crackling to life in his palms.

Vlad stood at the doorway, a solid 20 steps from Danny.

“Vlad.”

“So I’ve been hearing.”

“I need you to explain the portal.”

“Ah, I see you’ve spoken to your parents.” Vlad stepped in, washed in the ecto-green which muddied his ruby red eyes. He held his hands behind his back, cape trailing, a smirk on his fanged face. “Last I heard they weren’t taking the news very well.”

“What news. What did you tell them?”

“Me? Nothing. In fact, very kindly for your sake I even tried to drive them away from the answer but… We know how stubborn your parents can be.”

“What answer?”

“That you’re dead, Daniel.”

Shock washed like ice down Danny’s spine. It sent prickles like spider legs across his skin.

“Well, I suppose there’s still chance for some doubt. It could be Jazz. She could take the fall for you, if there’s any benefit to that at all.”

“I’m a halfa. We are halfas,” Danny said.

“A silly made up word by a silly child,” Vlad mused, and the light smile left his lips. “We are dead.”

“I’m not dead,” and Danny’s words were small, and they were childish.

“You are. I am. Embrace it. It’s nicer this way.” Vlad took a few steps closer, lionously tall in his saunter, feet clacking the ground. “It’s very freeing. After you’ve died already what is there left to fear?”

“I’m alive.”

“You’re a dead body with its soul still stuffed inside it like a Christmas goose. A lot of things in your body don’t work anymore, but ghosts don’t work right anyway and it is, for all its defiance of nature, a perfectly symbiotic relationship.” Vlad’s smile brushed his lips again, warm. “It’s nice to share this with you. Isn’t it nice to share things with people?”

Danny’s heart was beating too fast in his chest, and it was a human heart, a human beat. “I’m not dead,” he declared.

“Your wounds heal quickly because the ghost piloting you only needs to remember form. It stacks cells back into place and calls it good. You’ll endure fatal injuries as you no doubt have many times in your fights, but they’re trivial because physical trauma is not what kills a ghost. It’s what creates one. You’ll necrotize in places but it’s okay, because you’ll carry on, and it will bother you only if you let it bother you, if you’re too sentimental about the puppet you’re still inside.” Vlad closed in closer, neck craning to appraise Danny. “Ghosts love a facsimile of life so you will keep your heart pumping, your lungs breathing. You’ll eat and you’ll sleep but you’ll find you won’t perish if you don’t. It just won’t be a good time if you want to keep occupying your flesh form. Take better care of it. You won’t get another.”

“You’re psychotic. And you’re wrong.”

“I have all the math to prove it.” Vlad leered from over Danny’s shoulder. He circled the boy, knocking Danny’s balance, who still on a hair trigger stood ready to fight. The light from the ghost portal painted Vlad’s face like the phases of the moon as he moved. “Did your parents explain that part to you properly?”

“No, because they didn’t get the math right.”

“Oh they’ve gotten it right. This time. It only took them two decades longer than it took me.” The portal rolled like static, and its fizzling pattern crashed like an ocean wave across Vlad’s cape. “No amount of man-made power is sufficient to drag the entire fabric of the Ghost Zone up against our own, tear a hole through it, and anchor it to a stable frame. It requires something with a pull on the Ghost Zone, a strong pull, and that thing is a human life at the moment of an extraordinarily violent death.”

Danny backed a step away from the portal, from Vlad, but the walls boxed him in. He swam in its green light.

“You stepped in and you turned the portal on, that’s what you thought, right, Daniel? Pressed a careless button on the inside and now here we are. Silly parents for not finding that button first.” Vlad’s face hardened. “No. Jack and Maddie knew about the button. Maddie explained it to me over the phone. What engineer designing and building their own portal would forget the location of the on button? They’d pressed it from the outside. It didn’t work. And so you pressing the button was not the important part. It was you dying to the electrocution that clicked everything right into place. And while your ghost should have been torn from your lifeless corpse and pulled to the Ghost Zone you instead pulled the Ghost Zone here. Your ghost got to stay put. You opened the portal. You became the undead freak you are. And now we’re here.”

Danny’s eyes bounced between Vlad’s. His cheeks felt hot, like he was enduring an accusation of wrongdoing. And he had none of the knowledge to refute what was being said.

“You’re messing with me. You’re wrong,” Danny shot back. He thrust an arm out, drenched in the fog of the portal. “If the portal needs a person to die in it then explain your portal! Are you so casual about it? You killed someone? You’re admitting to murder and you think I won’t do anything about it?”

Anger flashed like a storm across Vlad’s face. His aura swelled, pressing down with a pressure on Danny as Vlad halted and cast his shadow clear across Danny, coating the back wall. “The killing of other people with the wanton carelessness of half-baked machines is the domain of Jack and Jack alone. I’ve brought no such harm onto anyone else.”

“Then how do you have this portal?”

“This portal? This portal that I’ve had for 20 years? Which I opened when I solved the piece of Jack’s broken math that he was never able to solve until this morning?” Vlad stalked closer, hunched, imposing. Danny stepped back. “My boy Daniel you’ve had it so easy. You had it so simple. A truly clean break. So clean so lucky. A single lethal dose of electricity and it was already over. I’m jealous. You never even suffered.”

Vlad stepped closer, striking distance, arm extended. Danny flinched, but Vlad only swept his cape around, clenched in his fist, and pivoted to approach the portal.

“Put out of your misery before it even started.” Vlad slammed his fist against the portal rim, and the explosive metallic clang bounced through the rooms. His laugh belted out. “I should have been so lucky.”

19. Vlad Masters was 19. A sophomore in college. A man actively in the midst of sabotaging his social life to chase a woman who was already deeply in love with Vlad’s best friend who he hated more every day. He wasn’t sure what he ever enjoyed about Jack’s bumbling ineptitude, or his loudness, his brashness, his poor social skills, his bad breath, his mullet. Maybe Vlad had gravitated to Jack because deep down he loved how superior it made him feel to surround himself with the likes of Jack Fenton… And now, he hated how enraged it made him to watch Maddie’s eyes skip past his to focus on Jack Fucking Fenton again and again and again and again.

But surely there was hope still. Surely it was a matter of time before the rose-tinted glasses fell away and Maddie saw bumbling and inept and every such word in the basket when she looked at Jack. There’d come the day she tested the waters with Vlad to complain about one of Jack’s little quirks, and they’d find solace together in all the things Vlad was that Jack wasn’t, and all the things Vlad had that Jack didn’t. And he’d be gone, back to bumble elsewhere, and it would be just them.

The day didn’t come. It wouldn’t come. And maybe Vlad needed to change himself for Maddie. If he listened to her and Jack’s ghost ramblings, if he could put Jack in his place and solve the things Maddie couldn’t, it would show her. She’d understand.

Because that was the thing about Jack. His math was never right. Enduring Calculus 1 with Jack was all it took to prove this to Vlad. How many times he’d caught a single error on a single line for Jack, like a dropped stitch that would unravel the whole sweater. Every problem, without exception. Jack only passed on his homework grade with Vlad’s help. On his tests, he failed.

So Vlad was staring at Jack’s equation, full of bogus math, which Vlad knew was wrong because Jack had penned it, and Vlad had not yet fixed it himself.

“I’m telling you Jack, it won’t work.”

“Bogus V-man it totally will!”

It wouldn’t. But Vlad wouldn’t fix it for him. Not yet. Vlad would let Jack embarrass himself first, fully in front of Maddie, watching on, judging. Vlad would solve it for her. After. Once Jack had made a fool of himself for the hundredth time since college began.

He leaned in to study the portal frame. The gears were turning in his head already. He didn’t hear the whir of the power source catch.

…

19. Vlad Masters was 19. A tube ran down his nose and into his lungs, supplying oxygen for lungs which were failed by a diaphragm sloughing itself away. He was poisoned from the outside-in. Irradiated by ecto-energy none of the nurses or doctors could fully understand. It damaged his DNA. First obvious in the skin of his face where the blisters of his ecto-acne drained and sloughed. “Acne” was the wrong word. An unkind word. They were boils where the blast had cooked his skin, microwaved his cells. The skin on his body blackened over time. Organs decayed. Vlad Master read a lot about radiation sickness. He knew everything he had to expect.

Jack and Maddie had stopped visiting. They were dating now. It was on their last visit they’d told him, and Vlad hadn’t taken it well, and he’d perhaps burned a few bridges with the words he chose. It was deserved. Considering what Jack did to him.

He’d found the error in Jack’s math, by the way. Errors, but all the rest paled in impact compared to the lambda. The ecto-energy. The necessary ecto-potential to pull the Ghost Zone here. How stupid. How idiotic. For Vlad to die to a machine so botched in its construction.

When Vlad was released from the hospital, it was not because they’d cured him. It had been because there is a certain cruelty in making a 19-year-old live the last of his days bedded down in a white-walled room with just his books, his equations, and no one coming to visit anymore.

He was released with bedrest instructions. Vlad did not heed them. In his beater car, every cell of his body aching, he drove. At the materials lab, he disconnected his oxygen tank and moved through the lab space with the tube dangling loose from his nostril. No one was Vlad Masters’ friend. No one cared to stare long at his ugly boil-ridden face. No one stopped him as he hauled sheet metal, and supports, and bolts and wiring and resistors and power tools, checked out with a valid student ID, from the lab. The lab inventory room would not be seeing these back.

It was a prep bunker, buried beneath a vast lot of empty Wisconsin land, that Vlad hauled his materials. He and Jack had discovered it as freshmen. Poked through its bowels with flashlights and quipped and laughed over how eerie it was. Deep beneath the sheetrock, boxy rooms carved out of walls of stone. Shelf upon shelf of dusty canned foods, and shotguns sealed in cases fastened to the walls. The locks had rusted with water damage.

His arms ached until they throbbed, dragging beams of metal across the stone floor, scratching chalk-mark stains into the ground. His skin sloughed, inflamed, burning to the touch. Vlad didn’t bother to rest, because these injuries would never heal anyway. He hauled, and welded, and wired up his circuitry and resistors with a care and caution Jack would never have bothered to practice. He checked it against his math by flashlight. He took naps on the cold stone floor and woke with deep purple bruises on every part of his body that had pressed against the ground.

His appetite left him. His lungs filled with mucus. The boils on his face had spread down to his chest, his shoulders. The touch of his shirt chafed them, so he worked without one, a figure of skeletal rib ridges jutting from tight skin that bloomed with the projection of his shadow against stone walls.

He knew why Jack’s math was wrong.

A silly mistake. A stupid mistake. Anyone with half a mind for the paranormal should have realized the Ghost Zone was not so easily at your beck and call. Not without chumming the water with something it would rise to feast on.

And in that violent death, what would happen to the ghost? It would stay, wouldn’t it? If it successfully anchored the Ghost Zone to the portal it stood inside, then by definition the ghost would stay?

And was that death? Yes, in a way. But it was a death one would get to keep living. As opposed to the death Vlad was headed for, whose coldness and finality scared Vlad more than anything he could put to words.

He’d fixed the oxygen tank back to himself. He couldn’t work without it, hauling it about on a little dolly with him, back and forth, while he fetched and affixed the last of the plating he needed to craft the frame of his silent soulless portal.

He’d stolen a generator from the sports storage shed. It was meant to be enough to power the portable stadium lights they hauled onto the fields for late games, an absolute obelisk meant to cast light across an entire football field.

Surely, it contained enough power to kill one simple human.

Vlad fixed the last bolt in place. Jumper cables clamped generator to portal wiring. It was a pure skeleton. A paltry thing, like the bones of something already picked clean. Built in haste, sloppy, by a 19-year-old whose fingers were too inflamed to clutch a wrench any longer.

He could have asked Jack for help. Maddie. But he wouldn’t let them have this. They had to solve the portal on their own. They didn’t get to know his hard work. They did not get to save him.

Vlad would save himself.

A ghost anchored to a body. What was that? What monster was that?

Vlad moved. He coughed mucus from his lungs. It made it hard to breathe. So he moved slowly, and crouched, bony jutting angles, painted blotchy purple, all bruises and skin, sloughing away.

He crouched, because the portal he’d constructed was not large enough to hold him standing up. He bowed inside it, a small thing, a pathetic man of little life. He wheezed. He hurt. His eyes burned.

And he held in his hands the remote to flip the generator switch, and connect the circuit, and bring to life the math Vlad had so kindly corrected out from under Jack’s grip.

Vlad did not. Because throwing the switch would kill him.

Deep in his animal brain, his dying brain, he knew this intimately. It filled him with a drowning fear like paralysis. He did not want to die.

He would die if he did nothing.

It would be this one throwing of the switch which could save him. Which would burst the portal to life right through his heart. Electrocute it out of its rhythm, slaughter him like a pig on spot and… maybe… hopefully… drag the Ghost Zone here. And whatever he was, dead, would stay.

And whatever he was, dead, would be better than this.

Vlad held the remote in his clammy hands.

And from within the humming skeleton of his portal, his fingers caressed the on button.

…

The portal sung its happy contentment, mused in its healthy green aura, staining all the slabs of rock wall. Danny swiveled his head, recognizing now the bunker this had been before it had been a laboratory.

“I’ve harmed no one, Daniel,” Vlad concluded, his voice too measured for the horrors it had spilled forth. Too calm against the blossoming terror its words had wrought across Danny’s face. “I opened the portal to save myself. You’re lucky, Daniel. It was because of my fast thinking that your father is not a murderer. I took that honor from him.” Vlad’s head tilted to the side, suddenly sympathetic. “Although, you’ve maybe made the title whole for him.”

Vlad reached out, Danny shot away.

“Dad didn’t kill me,” he choked. “I did this to myself.”

“How lucky Jack is, to always dodge responsibility for his actions.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Of course you don’t. If you believed me, you’d have to accept you’re not wriggling out of this. There’s no denial you can bring home to your parents. If you believe me, then this is reality.” Vlad smiled, a playful glint to his fangs. “I suppose I should have more sympathy. I quite like being this way. It is so much nicer than wasting away to death, like I was. But you. You were healthy before this. This killed you, and it didn’t save you from anything.” Vlad cocked his head. “Such tragic fates, both of us, due to the carelessness of Jack Fenton.”

Danny shook his head. His heart beat—his human heart beat—all too fast in his throat. It made him sick. It made him feel like the walls were closing in around him. This was Vlad’s doing. Vlad’s trap. Vlad’s prison he’d been forced to join.

"That's not true. I'm not like you."

“Of course not,” Vlad said, sweetly. “How sweet denial is. Deny it if you like. Call me a liar. But if you ever want to come to terms with what your father did to you, consider coming to me. I understand you in a way no one else will.”

Danny gave no response. He gave no acknowledgement of Vlad’s words. He took to the air, phased himself up through the sheetrock that had been packed atop the doomsday prepper bunker. Up through the mansion, which had been built atop the portal beneath it, and not the other way around. Into the open sky, he breathed fresh air not stagnant and damp beneath the ground, bathed in light pure white from the sun and not tainted green like the bowels underneath him.

And he flew back toward the portal that made him, leaving Vlad with the from which portal he’d made himself.

...

(inspiration post from @ciestess)

#sham sacrifice #danny phantom #dp #dp fanfiction #vlad masters #danny fenton #YELLS AND THROWS THIS AT YOU #ive been spinning around like a top on this idea #tw: suicidal ideation

449 notes · View notes

coldfanbou · 2 days

Text

Manor: Away At Last

We return to find ourselves having some doubts before Nayeon intrudes on us, and then we make the big leap.

Length 2K

Nayeon X Mreader

With Umji sleeping on your chest, you figured now was the best time to go. You pull her off your cock; small groans escape her lips as you place her in front of Taeyeon. The older woman wraps her arms around Umji, becoming the big spoon as they begin to cuddle in their sleep. You look around Taeyeon’s room for a paper and pen, sneakily looking through her drawers. They were filled with clothes as you had expected, but you found other things as well; a dildo is the most interesting thing, but eventually you find a notepad and pen. You pen out your feelings to Taeyeon before putting on your clothes and leaving her room.

You look around the halls; no staff are around at the moment, so you rush to your room. Along the way, you spot Moonbyul and pull her along with you. “Hey! What’s going on?” She yelled.

“How long until we can leave?” You ask, pulling her into your room. “Taeyeon and Umji are asleep right now. I need to know when we can leave.”

“It’s better if we leave in the evening or at night; it’s only a few hours away. So calm down and make sure you have everything. Besides, I’m sure that cock of yours was enough to put them down for a least a little while longer than we need.” Moonbyul says cooly. “Make sure you have everything you need because there’s the chance you never come back. I still have my phone; I’ll message you when it’s time.” Moonbyul heads for the door, opening it slowly as she looks your way. “Oh, and don’t forget about your lover. You two better come together because I’m not waiting around.”

“Right,” You sigh before walking over to your bed and sitting on the edge. The door closes, and you’re left alone in your room. Looking around the room, you recall all the time you spent here. You shake your head and grab the backpack, ensuring you have everything you need and all essential documents. You doubt yourself for a moment, unsure of how you should proceed, when a knock at the door grabs your attention. Looking at the doorway, you see Nayeon standing there with her own bag. “Come in, Nayeon.” She does so, slowly shutting the door to make the least amount of sound and leaving her bag by it before sitting on your bed beside you.

“So, I guess we’re leaving today.”

“Yeah, we are.”

Nayeon glances at you before patting her lap, “Rest your head; I know you have a lot on your mind.” You give Nayeon a hesitant look, and she responds with a deadly serious expression, practically ordering you to lay your head on her lap. When you do, you see her expression soften, a slight smile spreading across her face. You stay like that for some time before either of you decide to speak. “It’s really a lot, huh? Leaving everything behind. It’s scary.”

“You’re telling me,” You respond, focusing on the doorway.

“I don’t know how many hours you and I spent here. And now, we’re just going to leave it all behind.” Nayeon runs her hands through your hair. They’re shaky, and you know she is trying to calm down.

You raise yourself slowly and grab Nayeon’s back, pulling her back onto the bed. “Nayeon, I can feel your hands shake when you do that. You’re more nervous than me.” She just nods her head. She places her hands on your arm and pushes her body into yours. You feel her thin frame rub against you. The scent of her perfume hit your nose, a slightly sweet lavender smell.

As much as you didn’t want anything from her at this moment, your body reacted to Nayeon’s as she rubbed against your crotch. She felt as much. “I’m sorry, Nayeon.” You try to pull away from her, but only for Nayeon to hold your hands.

“N-no. Don’t go,” she says sheepishly, turning her head slowly over her shoulder. “Do you think we could do it one more time?” You give her a confused look, wondering why she wants to do it now. Nayeon casts her eyes downward, embarrassed, “I liked doing it with you, and I want to do it again.” She mumbles, barely intelligible.

“I can’t hear you. Can you repeat that?”

“Don’t make me say it again,” Nayeon says, her face growing red. “I want you to fuck me.” She mumbles, just loud enough for you to hear. Nayeon turns in your arms, a pleading look on her face as she stares into your eyes. “Just one more time.” Nayeon buries herself in your chest, trying to hide away. “T-this could be good for us. I-it’ll help us relax.” You kiss the top of her head. This makes her peek up from your chest. “Is that a yes?”

You stay silent, letting your actions do the talking as you press your lips against hers. Nayeon’s eyes shoot open; she accepts the kiss, enjoying the feeling of your lips on hers. She grabs your arms, moving them from her back to her waist. You hold Nayeon gently as you break the kiss. Nipping at her neck, Nayeon moans softly and holds your head. Your hands move around Nayeon’s waist, finding the zipper to her skirt and pulling it down slowly. She feels you strip away her skirt, leaving her bottom half in just panties and thigh highs. “Thank you,” Nayeon moans. She rubs her legs together as you tug on her sweater. Nayeon lets you go momentarily, practically throwing her sweater off before wrapping her arms around your neck and bringing you back in.

“You’re gonna catch a cold leaving in just a sweater.”

“Shut up,” Nayeon groans as you cup her breasts, squeezing the modest mound. You groan, too; Nayeon was rubbing her cunt against your bulge. “Please, I want you.” You pull your pants and underwear down as Nayeon continues to grind against you. Her panties were soaked with her juices, and her hips continued to grind against you. “Please, put it in.” Nayeon moans into your ear.

You move her panties to the side and place your cock between her lips. She becomes more restless, rocking her hips back and forth, pushing your cock between her folds. “Calm down, Nayeon. I don’t want this to be the last time. We can take our time.”

Despite your words, Nayeon continued to move. “I just need you. I’ve been thinking about our first time together.” Without another word, you grab Nayeon’s waist and slowly push inside; her entrance stretches to fit you inside. Her walls cling to your shaft as you push in deeper, rubbing against the head. Nayeon wraps her legs around you as you finish burying yourself inside her. You glance at Nayeon only to see her in he own world, eyes shut and a long, breathy moan escaping her lips. Her arms relax around you as you begin thrusting; each one is long and slow. Nayeon’s modest breasts bounce as you push back into her. You reach up, cupping one of Nayeon’s cheeks, holding her head still as you go in and kiss her. “I-I love you.” Her words were a pleasant surprise. You stay buried inside Nayeon, waiting for her to open her eyes. “Why did you stop?” She asks as her eyes flutter open.

It was your chance to tease her. “What did you say?”

“I-Nothing! I didn’t say anything!” Nayeon says as she panics. “I-I said fuck me! I want it harder!” She shouts, trying to cover her traces. You chuckle

“If that’s what you want.” You say before moving your hands to Nayeon’s waist and sinking your fingers into her flesh with a tight grip. You pull out slowly before ramming your length into Nayeon. She grunts as you ram into her womb.

“Oh, fuck me!” Nayeon grunts as you begin to ram every inch into her welcoming pussy. She tucks her head into your shoulder and tightens her grip on your waist. Her moans grow louder, filling the room. Nayeon’s walls tighten around you as she nears her climax, the sudden attack on her body sending her over the edge. “I’m gonna cum!” She yells before biting down on your shoulder. Nayeon pushes you deeper inside as she cums, her walls tightening and relaxing around your cock, attempting to milk you as you continue to pound away at her cunt. Nayeon’s moans continue as you begin to overstimulate her. Each thrust drives you crazy as you try to hold on; Nayeon’s tight warm cunt was becoming too much for you. “Wait, wait, wait!” Nayeon cries, her roll into the back of her head as you make her cum again, quickly. Her nectar squirts out of her, coating your cock and dripping onto the bed as you bury yourself inside her and fill her awaiting cunt with your semen. You watch Nayeon’s expression, noticing her come in and out as she recovers from her orgasms. Her hips thrust upward on occasion as she twitches, and you're forced to pull her legs apart, finally allowing you to pull out. Nayeon slowly closes her legs, her panties acting as a poor barrier as cum soaks it before spilling between her thighs.

“Was that hard enough for you?” You ask, breathing heavily and tired. Nayeon turns her head slowly, eyeing your softened cock. She turns onto her side and crawls closer, pressing her lips against the bulbous head before swallowing as much as possible. You groan immediately, feeling her tongue lash against your shaft. You begin to grow hard in her mouth, forcing her to back away as her lips become stretched out. Nayeon swirls her tongue around the head. You moan her name in response. You feel a smile form as she hears that. Nayeon pops you out of her mouth and runs her full lips along your shaft, lapping up the remaining cum on it.

“I guess you like it when I use my mouth,” Nayeon says as she plants a kiss on the tip. “Maybe I’ll use it more often if this isn’t the last time we fuck.” She comments before opening her mouth to show you she drank all of your cum.

Not a second later, the door opened and shut. “Alright, it’s time to go,” Moonbyul said as she turned around. She covered her eyes and turned to face the door the moment she spotted Nayeon nearly completely naked. “Oh, for crying out loud. Couldn’t you have locked the door or put a sock on the handle?”

Nayeon grabs her sweater, covering her chest with it in a panic. “Sorry, but I hadn’t expected someone to barge in.” You reply.

“Shut your mouth and grab your things; both of you, we are leaving.” Nayeon throws her sweater back on and rushes to put her skirt back on as you pull your pants back up. You grab your things, ready to finally leave. “Let’s get going; the faster we do this, the better.” Moonbyul leads you out of the manor, acting as a scout to ensure no one sees you and Nayeon. You exited through one of the side doors, the late evening sky providing just enough darkness to hide among the hedges as you leave the property and find a car waiting for you. The three of you jump in with your things before heading off. You sat in the backseats with Nayeon as Moonbyul sat up front with her co-conspirator. The car ride was silent for the first few minutes before Moonbyul decided to speak up. “Hey, you two. Aren’t you going to say thanks to my partner?”

“Oh, right. Sorry. Uhm, thank you for picking us up…”You grow quiet, realizing you don’t know their name.

“Call me Solar, and it's no problem. Moonbyul’s my partner anyway, and I needed to get her back sooner or later.”

Moonbyul brings the conversation back into focus, “So here’s the plan: we’re going to drop you two off at your new place, and then we’ll drink a lot. I need something strong after working my butt off as a maid. Consider it a cheers to your escape.”

“Yeah, right.” You say as you reach over and grab Nayeon’s hand. “A cheers to freedom.”

“To freedom,” Nayeon says quietly.

#kpop smut #male reader #m reader #twice smut #nayeon smut

408 notes · View notes

01zfan · 3 days

Text

paint you | l. at

swimmer!anton x art student!reader | 7.6k words

this fic has a little bit of everything good lord…set in uni, childhood friends to strangers to lovers, pining…very much a slice of life i think…i hope everything isn’t too scattered or hectic

contains: semi public sex, no protection (DON’T BE LIKE THEM)

you didn’t say a word as you watched the movers take all your belongings into your new home. you were like that now, completely silent as your form of rebellion. you had moved far away from everything you knew to come here. your mom was happy, talking about new beginnings and more adventures. you only thought about your going away card and bouquet of flowers you smothered to death on your way here.

you crouched in the driveway, drawing in the dirt with your stick as your mother called to you. you were no longer the sweet child that would come anytime their name was called. you only focused on the dirt and long lines you drew, imagining it was your path back home. you didn’t look up until a shadow was casted over you, and you saw someone foot over the line you drew in the dirt.

you looked up slowly, squinting as you took in the sun above the person looking down at you.

“my mom said i have to come say hi to you.” the boy said quietly.

you looked over to your mom, chatting with a lady while the movers continued to do all the work. you ignored the boy, looking back down at the path back home you etched into the earth.

“you don’t talk?” the boy asked.

you ignored him. you only continued to draw your lines, making your way to his foot. he took a small step backwards, letting you complete your line.

“i don’t like to talk either.” he said.

he crouched beside you silently and grabbed a stick. it was smaller than yours but still did the same. he started drawing shapes in the sand next to your lines and winding circles. you looked to him again, to see that he was focused on playing in the dirt the same way you were. you scooted over in the grass, leaving a space open for the boy to come next to you. he caught on immediately, moving from in front of you to be by your side. you two played in the dirt, pushing around the earth to mold it into shapes and lines. your mother’s got along, not noticing their kids getting their clothes dirty until it was too late.

“anton!”

both you and the boy snapped your heads to the voice of anton’s mother. seeing anton respond immediately to his name being called made you do the same. both of you got up from the dirt to walk to your mother’s and both of you were scolded the same, hearing a speech about how expensive clothes were. both of your mother’s were smiling the whole time, seeing their two antisocial and quiet kids get along.

from then on, it was history. you stuck close to anton, trailing behind him in school, quiet and stealthy like a ghost to everyone but him. anton was understanding, becoming your representative anytime someone threw a glance over his shoulder to eye you, like they were confused if you were real or not. each time he would smile and pull you beside him, introducing you as his bestfriend.

you and anton remained close. he was with you when you started speaking for yourself, no longer needing him to be your voice. you were with eachother all throughout school, spending more time with him than you did your family.

the amount of time you spent together through swim and school made him know you better than anyone else. you were by eachothers side through the transition from kids to teens and the growing pains of puberty. you even made it through the trials and tribulations of being friends in highschool, surviving through the countless dating rumors that seemed to arise every week. none of it mattered, anton was there for you and you were there for him. you guys challenged eachothers personal records in swimming and were neck and neck in class. sometimes you were convinced he was the mirror image of you, your platonic soulmate. that’s what comes with the territory of being with someone for nearly twelve hours a day—you end up knowing them better than anyone else.

so it was unfortunate, after all the time you spent together as kids it was college that did you two in. you blamed it on the fact that you and anton both chose different paths in college. he stayed with swimming while you went to the arts. it called to you, the ability to make something with your hands. you never regretted your decision, but you did find yourself thinking about anton often. sometimes your mom would call and ask about him, and you would be forced to pretend like you had actually spoken to him and not just regurgitating rumors you heard on campus. the only truth you told your mom in relation to anton was that you passed by him on the way to class. that’s all you seemed to do, only seeing him in snatches as he walked around campus.

each time you saw anton, something about him was different. he had somehow grown more, and his dedication to swim contoured his muscles and made him broad. he was visibly bigger than all of his friends, your eyes drawn to him each time he came in your vicinity. each time he waved back to you, the two of you reduced to sharing pleasantries while walking in opposite directions. sometimes it felt like it would’ve hurt less to be completely ignored, but you knew that wasn’t anton’s style. within his friend group he was the social butterfly, once he was able to get past his introverted nature he became the glue of his group, bringing all of them together and planning the gatherings. anton was such a social butterfly to the point that everyone seemed to know him, and before you knew it your friend groups began mingling and overlapping.

you were afraid you were going to regress back to the shy girl you were as a child when anton came to you at a gathering. you had practiced this moment, him approaching you and asked what you were up to now. you had your hobbies written down on your hand and your new interests saved to your phone. you had made a playlist of the songs you liked now and a folder filled with art from your class. you wanted to desperately show anton you had grown up too, that you used your hands to hold a brush instead of slicing through water and you smelled like oil paint now instead of chlorine.

“how’ve you been?” anton asked.

he held a barely touched drink in his hand and you had a solo cup filled with soda in yours—neither of you were really fans of drinking.

“i’m good.” when anton nodded you looked around the living room of your mutual friend. everyone was mingling, engaged in conversation except for you too. “i read now.” you said abruptly.

anton smiled, tilting his head at your new hobby.

“what have you been reading?” anton asked.

“oedipus rex.” your grip on the red cup almost bent the plastic around your fingers when anton looked you in your eyes. when you held his eyes for too long you instinctually looked down at your feet, focusing on a crack in the floorboard. “it’s for class, but i like it alot.” you said to the floor.

“hey.” anton reached his hand towards you, making you pull your eyes back up to him. his eyes were warm, his smile lines made you smile too. “that’s cool, really.” anton assured you.

you suddenly felt comfortable, the imaginary tension dissipated like the smoke clouds around you two. you put your hands on your hips ironically and shrugged your shoulders.

“you know, it’s nothing.” anton laughed a little at your reaction, copying your little pose. “i read shakespeare during the weekends.” you joke.

“something light?” anton jokes back.

“you get it.” you say.

for the rest of the night, you and anton caught up. you talked about everything that happened between the last time you saw eachother, laughing at funny stories and eyes going wide when something scandalous was said. no time passed at all between the two of you, you went back to your old routine like it was second nature. you talked in every part of the house, sitting on your friends bed while talking about class then standing in the kitchen when you mentioned life at home. you guys stood by the restroom talking about life and next steps, and ended on the couch while the night was winding down.

even though you didn’t have a single thing to drink that night, you felt dizzy staring at anton. he had his arm on the back of the couch, head leaning against his closed fist as he listened to you so intently. you felt yourself forgetting some words, looking to him to fill in what you were forgetting. you saw his smile grow big as you talked his ear off about art—once he got you started you couldn’t stop. you related your major to swimming, how you get in the zone the same way you used to before starting relays. talking with anton about swim made you realize how much you missed it. you missed the camaraderie with your teammates, how it felt like they were the only ones who understood what it was like to be so dedicated to the water. you ended the conversation on a somber note, but anton looked wistfully at his hands as he recalled his own memories.

“i miss being in swim with you, but i’m happy you’re doing what makes you happy.” anton says.

he puts his hand on your knee and you quickly put your hand on top, enjoying that you have an excuse to touch him. his hand is soft like it always was.

“i appreciate it.” you don’t let go of anton’s hand, squeezing it slightly. “you should come to my class sometime. sometimes we get extra credit on assignments if we bring in live models.” you say.

“you want me to slut myself out so you can get an A for the semester?” anton asks.

you scratch the nape of your neck to hide embarrassment. you recover well, looking at anton jokingly.

“isn’t that what friends do?” you ask.

anton throws his head back to laugh. his hand on your leg squeezes your knee, causing you to move too. both of you laugh for a moment, but you can feel your face heating at the thought of anton posing for your class.

“maybe your next solo assignment.” anton looks forward at the party. a couple flirts in front of you guys on the shag rug, holding a joint to the others lips as they breathe it in. “i don’t know if i can do that in front of your whole class.” anton says, looking back to you.

you turn to look at the couple now, face feeling even hotter at the thought of anton posing just for you. you can’t stop your mind racing. suddenly you are inspired, the dynamic poses you see anton in flashes through your mind as you try to speak. you wondered if anton would be able to stay still as long as you needed him to, if he could keep his lips parted the perfect amount for hours on end. the ideas couldn’t stop flowing—you had to slightly shake your head to refocus.

“it wouldn’t be nude. i’ve seen it all before amyways.” you say casually.

when anton laughs shyly you turn back to him. he has a smirk on his lips, and you can feel your hands get restless. you want to paint his lips and his perfect teeth that show when he smirks. you think that if you were to paint it and show it to anton he would understand why you suddenly feel sheepish looking at him.

“first of all, you haven’t seen it all, you’ve seen my top half. second of all, i’m not that flimsy prepubescent kid anymore. i’m a man.” anton says, posing to show off his muscles.

you have to nod and smile to act like nothing is a big deal. you reach forward and poke his flexed arms for comedic effect. before you can say anything, the host of the party tells everyone it’s time to leave. the lights cut on and anton’s blushing face is revealed to you. when your eyes go wide he draws his hand away from your leg, hiding it behind a stretch.

“before i pose for you though, i’d like to actually see you again.” anton gets up from the couch, and holds out his hand to help you up. you grab it and stand right in front of him, looking at his broad chest. anton’s hands to to your shoulders, and you look up to him. “not just by chance at a gathering but like actually planning something out.” he says.

you nod your head. you find your hands to be restless again, the only way to get them to be still is to stuff them into the small pockets of your jeans.

“you have my number.” you say back.

“anton, let’s go.” you look and see anton’s friends beckon to him from the entryway.

“were you drinking? you’re our DD.” another friend said.

“it’s literally kombucha.” anton shakes his head, and you can see the nonalcoholic text on the label. he faces you as he walks backwards to his friends, pulling out his phone. “i’ll text you.” he says.

anton turned back to his friends before you could say okay. when you walk out with your friends a few minutes later you felt the buzzing in your back pocket, and you open your screen to read the message.

let’s hang out tomorrow

this is anton btw

ever since that night, you started seeing anton everyday. whether it was a quick stop to eachothers dorms in between classes or eating together you were with him everyday. in a weeks time anton gave you the spare key to his dorm, emphasizing that you could crash there whenever you’d like. you had no sense of self preservation and neither did anton—both of you went all in, spending so much time together you started getting the urge to swim again.

although you spent time together like when you were in highschool, there was a different feeling to it. there was a line you two silently set in the dirt when you got to highschool. you two came to the agreement then that friends didn’t hold hands, they sat on opposite sides of the couch, and had crushes on other people. it was upsetting, both of you mourned the loss of innocence and degree of closeness brought by skinship. but you guys were becoming adults, it was time to draw a line in the dirt the same way you did when you were children. sometimes you thought about the line, how it might’ve been the thing that drove you two apart. you two were on opposite sides, heading off in different directions.

but time is a flat circle and you two went around the world to meet at the same line. this time, it was the division in his couch, the line down the middle that separated the two cushions the both of you sat on. a romantic movie played on the television in anton’s dorm, one about two people finding their way back to eachother. you scooted closer to the division in the couch and anton did too, still watching at the movie.

that’s how it was at first, you two getting so close to the line until your thighs touched, but nothing more. you felt the cold sweats all over you body and heat across your cheeks and neck as your mind wandered to all the possibilities. his hand went to your knee first, the same way it did at the gathering. everything was different, the implication of being alone and him touching you made goosebumps spread across your skin. heat came from anton in waves, and you could smell chlorine and his body wash when he settled deeper into the couch, moving his body slightly towards you.

“i really like this movie.” anton said.

you nodded your head, feeling anton squeeze your knee. you tried mimicking him, relaxing further into the couch until you could lean against his body. when your head rested on his shoulder he visibly relaxed, lowering his body more to give you more space. his hand moved from your knee to your thigh, squeezing and rubbing what he could reach. you felt hot all over, trying not to read too much into how anton was holding you.

anton was the one that crossed the line first. he stepped over the line in the dirt when he picked up your legs and moved them over his, coming completely into your space. a tiny sound left your mouth, you were excited, feeling static electricity across your body and inside your mind. you could only put your hands over anton’s as you got used to his touch.

nothing happened that night, nothing seemed to happen when you guys would spend time together. it was grueling and agonizingly slow how you two were working up to being in eachothers space again. anton would hold you in the privacy of his room timidly, touches light as a feather like he was worried you’d flinch away. you were worried you were enjoying it too much, the way he’d look at you sweetly and hesitate when bringing the back of your hand to his lips. anton grabbed your hand while walking you back to your building, fingers lacing with yours casually as he talked about his schedule for tomorrow. the both of you could only speak absentmindedly and nod, too focused on how your hands fit together like puzzle pieces.

even though you didn’t spend as much time with anton as you did when you were in swim, he still took up an unhealthy amount of your mind. the slow and delicate pace you two moved at burned across your skin, leaving your brain frayed at the edges. it was the worst when you were painting. you’d be focused on an object in front of you for a study and your mind would drift to anton. your fingers and your strokes would turn into half assed portraits of the boy you were getting close to again. it became an obsession, you were hiding your unfinished work of anton in the studio space, scared he’d find it if you put it in your room.

just when it got to be too much, it was like the art gods were smiling down on you. your class got assignments to do a human anatomy study. you wrote down your name to rent the studio space to accommodate anton’s schedule that you now had memorized. when leaving class you texted anton, telling him about your upcoming project.

are you going to draw me like one of your french girls?

i’ll try my best.

you didn’t even have to ask anton to be your model. he agreed on the spot, only asking for the time, place, and how many clothes he needed to bring. he showed up to the studio shortly after his class, wearing a matching gray sweatsuit. anton had a duffle slung over his shoulder, and he held on tightly to the strap as he navigated his way around the studio space. he was unbelivably careful, almost tiptoeing around the half done sculptures that littered the floor. droplets from anton’s hair fell on the ground as he walked—he came straight from swim practice, not wasting the time to go back home.

you both hesitated before going in for a hug, making it an awkward embrace. you both knew the implications, and the tension made hairs on the back of your neck raise. anton patted your back twice, pulling away and asking about your day. his voice was sweet and nonchalant, but the blush appearing across anton’s cheeks told you he was nervous. you were the same, refusing to make eye contact as you stared at the zipper on anton’s tracksuit.

his hands rested at his sides when you were done exchanging pleasantries, trying to figure out what was next. you cleared your throat and motioned towards the block in the center of the studio surrounded by a circle of easels.

“just pose there however you’d like.” you pointed to the sheet neatly folded on top of the block. “there’s a sheet to cover yourself up with.” you said.

you walked past the block, weaving through a row of easels until you made it to yours. you focused on your name carved into the wood as anton rolled his shoulders to try and relieve tension. he slid his duffle down his arm first, and you had to stare at the blank canvas in front of you to stop yourself from stealing glances at anton’s body. his curly hair peaked out above the canvas, moving slightly as he got undressed. you focused on the curls when you hear anton but when you heard anton unzip his jacket you went to playing with the charcoal utensils. you had to duck your head when you heard anton’s jacket fall to the ground and him messing with the drawstring on his pants. you count the little paint splotches on the ground over and over again when you see the gray sweats pool at anton’s feet. you watch his feet as he steps out and makes his way towards the block. you hear him bump into an easel, how slow his steps are. you almost pinch your skin when you hear the fabric of the sheet move, hoping that the self inflicted pain will give you something else to focus on.

you refuse to look up until you hear anton’s voice in front of you.

“can you help me?” anton asks.

you realize it was a mistake inviting anton when you finally get the courage to look past the easel and at him. instantly you are bothered, watching anton sit on the block while looking at you hopelessly. anton’s stares right through you as you slowly walk over towards him, causing your palms to feel sweaty. you wipe them on your jeans a million times before you stand in front of anton. from up here you can see overheard lights in the studio reflect in his large brown eyes as he looks up to you.

you make minor adjustments to the sheet that wraps around anton’s body, trying not to focus on his smooth skin that’s exposed or the peak of toned muscle you see. you make the mistake of looking at anton’s abdomen as you move his legs to a more comfortable position. his stomach is chiseled, intense workouts carved anton’s body out of stone. no matter where you touch him he is so soft and so solid underneath your fingertips. you focus on anton’s shoulder, but you can feel him staring directly at your face. you move a piece of hair from anton’s face and travel down. you look at his nose before you can look at him in the eyes.

“looks good now.” you say.

before you can turn away anton’s hands go to your waist. he keeps them there, fingers splayed out but he applies no pressure.

“what looks good?” anton asks.

you shrug quickly, trying not to shiver underneath anton’s look. he presses his fingers into your hips a little harder, and his thumb messes with the bottom of your shirt before slipping under. your hands go to his shoulders as he pulls you closer.

anton’s expression is almost pained when he leans his head back, blinking quickly before he opens them fully. his brown eyes almost look glossy when he focuses back on you. you see your reflection in anton’s eyes he pulls you in a little closer. your hands creep from anton’s shoulders to the nape of his neck. you let one of your hands splay across the back of anton’s neck, rubbing the pads of your fingers against his scalp. he leans his head into your hand with a sigh and a smile on his face. he brings your other hand that rests on his shoulder to his lips, looking directly at you when he kisses your hand.

he doesn’t stop at your knuckles. he works his way up slowly, moving his hand to graze over each kiss. you let him kiss you gently, and you let him pull you down until you’re face to face with him. anton stops at your tricep, his shaking hands still pressed to his trail of kisses.

“anton.” you say.

you close your eyes and lean in when anton looks back at you. for a moment you’re floating in space, heading towards the unknown. the thought of rejection flashes across your mind before you feel anton’s reciprocating, soft and gentle against your lips.

you press into him gently, your hand fully goes into his curly head of hair to finger the ends and twirl them around your finger. anton’s hands hold your arms first, gripping them slightly as he brings you in place. when it’s not enough anton slides off the block he was sitting on, the thin sheet that was covering his naked body falls with him. more of anton is exposed to you but you don’t shy away, you place your hands on his skin and press into his solid frame. anton pulls you down to the ground with him, not breaking the kiss as you become more desperate. you two almost bump into the easels surrounding you, but neither of you can be bothered.

you cross the line of his lips to push your tongue into his mouth, and anton tilts his head so he can do the same. you guys find a rhythm, lips languidly moving in sync while your tongues press against eachother.

“i rented out this space for the next hour.” even when anton pulls away from you while you keep a hand locked in his curly hair. “just us.” you say breathlessly.

anton hums and nods his head, pulling you closer by a hand wrapped around your waist. your back bows against his hold, giving anton space to drag his hands up your sides to grip your clothed chest. your shirt creases underneath anton’s hand, and you whimper when he presses his plush lips to your exposed collarbone.

“just us?” anton asks against your skin.

you nod your head vigorously when anton looks up at you from your chest, and you straighten your posture to try and bring your body closer to his. anton smiles, the creases in his eyes almost covered by the curls that cascade down the frame of his face. he presses his forehead to yours and the two of you look down between your two bodies. anton focuses on you two fitting together like puzzle pieces while you focus on his dick resting against his stomach. his tip is red and angry, the beading pre-cum making a patch of anton’s abdomen sticky.

anton pulls you onto his bare lap, his dick resting heavy against his stomach. his hands map your body, so desperate and unaware of his own strength that he overstretches the fabric of your shirt and causes you to move at his will. his hands mess with your jeans, pulling you closer by your belt loops. he rearranges himself on the sheet he used to cover himself as the charcoal staining your hands rubs off on his chest.

both of you are still, letting the weight of the situation sink in. your hand pressed against anton’s chest while the other grips his shoulder for stability. his hand on your chest, and the other on the small of your back as he splays his hand across the expanse. you look at your charcoal stained hand resting on anton’s chest. his heart thuds against your palm, mirroring the hammering in your own ribcage. your quickened heart rates effects everything, the way your breathing has turned into short huffs, the way your eyes flicker across anton’s face. the only thing that remains slow and steady is your hand as you drag it down anton’s chest. you make it past his heart, keeping eye contact as you trail down his stomach. when anton’s eyes close you let your hand finally wrap around his length, twitching and hard in your hand.

anton sighs in relief, taking one hand off of you to prop himself up as he leans back. the other hand on your body doesn’t calm down. even with his eyes closed anton finds the bottom of your shirt, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat when you start pumping his dick. anton’s grabs at any part of your body he can get a viable grip on. he kneads the flesh on your stomach before reaching up and holding your chest over your bra.

when he opens his eyes again anton brings his other hand to you to lift your shirt over your head. you’re forced to take your hand off his dick to discard your shirt, but when it’s thrown somewhere in the studio you go right back to him. you don’t pay the sound of and easel moving or the sound of paintbrushes clattering any mind—you’re focused on something else.

anton pauses only for a second, placing a kiss on your chest before he grabs a handful of you again. you go back to him, grabbing his dick in your hands. the slow pace you were going at previously was abandoned, you have waited too long to tease. the angle is awkward, almost uncomfortable—but the way anton’s eyes close and his mouth slightly opens in ecstasy drives your hand to go faster. anton’s precum makes your hand glide easily. the wet sound of you jerking anton off is subtle and quiet, almost as quiet as the whimpers that slip from anton’s mouth. you open your mouth too, mirroring the way anton whimpers pitifully when you tighten your hand around him.

anton lifts his hips and lifts you too, bringing both of you off the ground momentarily so he can fuck your hand. you look down at anton, how his body flexes to fuck himself and how his face is contorted in pure pleasure. you use your free hand to run over anton’s stomach, admiring the chiseled beauty in front of you. you can feel his abs ripple underneath his taut skin as you press your hand deeper into him.

“you look like a painting.” you murmur.

when you start pulsing your fist around his twitching dick anton puts his hand over yours. he brings you both back to the present.

“i won’t last long.” he says sheepishly.

you can see anton’s face already becoming flushed, the blush adorning his face in splotches. anton pulls your hand away from his dick, placing your wet hand on his chest instead. you both start feeling eachother again, letting your hands feel everything in the calm of heavy breathing and occasional sighs. anton brings you in close, nudging your ear with his nose as he lets out a shaky breath.

“how do you want it?” he whispers into your ear.

“we have to be quick.” you say just as quiet.

anton nods, sliding you off his lap onto the sheet. he moves his body fast, resting on his haunches as he works the button of your jeans. the fact that you two are running low on time looms over your heads, and the thrill of getting caught makes you two desperate. anton’s dick is rigid in the air, twitching upwards when he imagines someone walking in on the two of you.

you work your bra off your body, unclasping it quickly as anton pulls your pants down your legs. when he gets the denim down to your mid thigh he stops to abruptly lean over and kiss your exposed chest. it’s quick, a small peck right on your erect nipple. you wish you had more time with anton in this cramped studio, so you could whimper and while asking him to do it again. but you didn’t have time, and you were getting uncomfortable in your panties so you let anton pull your pants off the rest of the way.

anton pulls you in for a kiss, moving to stand on his knees and you do the same. he brings you in by an arm wrapped behind your back. you put your hands on his broad chest, letting his teeth clash against yours before pulling away.

“we have to be quick.” anton says.

he warns the two of you, but he still takes his time looking down at you and brushing hair behind your ear. being quick is lost on him as he caresses your cheek. he almost asks you how you’ve been before you pull away from him, turning around to get on your hands and knees.

“we have to be quick.” you echo.

anton laughs, looking at the position you got into so quickly. he doesn’t have anymore time to waste, he’s been doing that for the past fifteen years. so anton slots himself between your legs, letting his hard dick rest against your ass as he gets comfortable.

”i don’t have any condoms.” anton says.

he looks at your dick rest against your ass, twitching each time you move.

“i’m on birth control.” you wiggle your hips, scooting backwards to get closer to anton. “i’m not seeing anyone.” you add.

“me neither.” anton says immediately.

you nod, moving your hand back to grab anton’s dick. he guides himself into your hand, and shuffles forward until his tip prods your entrance. he can see a translucent pearl of precum mix with your slick. anton grabs his dick where you held it previously, running his tip up and down your folds. he sees you sigh and shiver, pressing your hands flat to the ground to mentally prepare yourself.

“the door is locked right?” anton asks.

both of you look towards the small classroom door. it’s halfway across the room, but you can vividly remember turning the metal bolt. it was ironic how much you hated distractions in the studio but here you were on your hands and knees, the most distracted you’ve ever been in your entire life.

“it’s locked and no one comes here during the weekends.” you let out a sigh when you feel anton come closer to you. “it’s like if we were in the locker rooms on a saturday night.” you say.

anton visibly relaxes behind you, finding comfort in the fact that you remembered saturday night competitions. everyone cleared out of immediately when the swim meets were over, everyone desperately trying to enjoy the start of their weekend. by the time the meets were done there wasn’t a soul around, not even the cleaning staff. so it was truly just you and anton here, completely engrossed in eachother. he leans over to press a kiss to your shoulder blades before moving a hand to your ass. he spreads you out, wanting a clear view of you spread out. anton sighs, wishing he had the time to press gentle kisses to your bottom half. anton tells himself silently that you have no idea how well he’d eat you out, how he’d take his time and not stop until you begged him to. but time was of the essence and anton was getting impatient—he rubbed a hand down your back while he lined himself up.

“are you ready?” anton asks sweetly.

you nod against the sheet underneath you. anton looks past your ass to smile at you. you’re so pretty with your lips pouted in anticipation anad your cheeks smushed from pressing into the sheet.

“yes.” you answer.

anton nods, and stays in the same position so he can see your face when he slides in. your eyes close instantly and your lips part, anton does the same as he watches you. he’s bewitched, locked in on how he’s making you feel. you suck him in more and more, and when anton bottom’s out he sees you bite down on your finger to stop yourself from moaning. he pulls all the way out before sliding back in, just as slow.

anton looks around at the easels surrounding your bodies, and the platform anton was posing on not even five minutes ago. he almost feels bad, he feels like he’s tainted the space you’ve created for yourself. he remembers when you used to be so shy you couldn’t look at someone in the eye, but now you gave presentations to seasoned artists about something as personal as art. he was proud of you, he thinks he loves you as he looks around and sees the art you’re working on. anton swears he sees a drawing pinned to the wall, an unfinished bust where the curls and side profile is unmistakable. anton looks down at your face, where you have tears prickling your vision and your teeth dig into your bottom lip.

when anton notices you staring at him he sees your hand reach back for him. anton sees your other hand gripping the sheets, and how you slide forward each time his hips kiss yours. before he knows it anton reaches forward to grab both of your arms, causing your knees to move forward as you sit on the back of your legs.

when anton grabs your arms at your sides, he pulls you back to him. you grab onto his biceps, the only stability you have in your position. you can hear anton grunt as he thrusts forward, using his hold on your body to bring you back. each time he thrusts his hips forward he exerts his strength, nearly knocking the breath out of you each time.

the sound of your skin slapping against his fills the room, and you can hear paintbrushes on the easels shake. your teeth digging into your bottom lip is the only thing stopping you from crying out anton’s name.

anton looks up from where he fucks you for behind, focusing on your nails that dig into his arm. he hisses from the pain, already feeling sensitive all over his body.

“feels good?” anton asks.

his voice is still sweet and airy as he talks to you. and you let a moan slip from your lips to let him know, and he sighs in response. the two of you can barely form sentences, becoming twitching messes as anton continues fucking you from behind. all communication turns to high-pitched whines and tightening grips from your hands. eventually it’s not enough, you let go of anton’s biceps to clench your fists to relieve the tension. he pulls your body back each time he thrusts forward, causing your body to jolt and the easels around you shake. you hear paintbrushes clatter against the linoleum floors far off in your mind, it barely registers when anton moans about how good you feel.

anton lets go of your hands and you plant them on the sheet. you can feel him behind you, his hand pressing into your stomach as he brings his sweaty chest to your back. anton continues to fuck you, a handful of your stomach in anton’s hands helps him drive your body backwards to meet his hips.

anton lets a whimper slip from his lips as he presses his cheek into your shoulder blades. his thrusts turns to ruts, and his free hand starts gripping your ass. you start acting on your own needs, purposely clamping your walls around anton’s dick so you can feel every inch of him inside of you. you start pathetically pushing your hips backwards, trying to do some of the work.

anton brings his face forward, hitting deep inside of you as his body superimposes over yours. you can feel puffs of hot air fan your ear as anton presses his face into the side of yours.

“you feel so good.” anton whimpers into your sticky skin.

“your dick is perfect.” you whine.

“you’re so perfect.” anton moans when you clamp around him again. “you have no idea.” he says.

you can feel anton’s smile against the shell of your ear as he continues to desperately rut into you. his smile falls when your walls squeeze around him sporadically. you can hear the moans he tried to silence, how they recklessly slip past his lips. he’s loud, unmistakably loud. you think about the rare chance there’s someone on the other side, pressing their ear to the door as they try to make out the sounds they hear over the music.

anton realizes he’s being too loud, he moves his mouth to the crook of your neck so your skin can muffle his sounds. you can feel the vibration of anton’s voice against your neck, and his teeth pressing into your clammy skin to calm himself. hearing anton causes you to spasm around him more. you’re slowly losing control of your body, the same way you lose control when painting. you let the feeling wash over the same way your ideas do, following the strokes of your brush and the sound of anton’s whimpers becoming more desperate. his hand goes from your ass to your chest, kneading your breasts roughly as he pants into your neck.

“i’m close.” you whisper.

you say it only for anton and for yourself, squeezing your eyes shut. you see anton pass by your eyes in a blur, all the times he’s looked like a painting you wanted to keep locked away in your sketchbook. the fleeting touches and palpitations in your heart seared to the back of your eyelids. just before the coil in your stomach snaps, anton pulls away from your body.

“i need to see you.” anton says earnestly.

you’re on your back in seconds, laying on the white sheets anton used to cover himself. you can’t look away from anton’s wet eyes or his mussed curly hair. his chest is pressed up against yours in an instant when he pulls your legs to bring you closer to his hips. he kisses your forehead quickly, slowing down before kissing your lips then each cheek. you wish you could’ve kissed him back, but your brain was still foggy from being on the brink of an orgasm. only one thing is on your mind as you look at anton with big teary eyes.

“put it back in.” you nearly cry. “please.”

anton grabs his length, gliding it down your folds until he finds your hole. he doesn’t waste time sliding in, fully pushing inside of you. anton has to go to the crook of your neck to moan out his frustrations, feeling his hot pants bounce off your skin.

“i love you.”

anton says it into the sweaty skin of your neck. if he had any self control he would’ve saved it for a better time, like a romantic dinner date or a trip back to your hometown. but anton can’t help it, he’s driven by needing you as close to him as possible. he tells himself he’ll confess to you properly again, when you both have time.

before you can tell anton you feel the same way, the words are taken from your throat as picks a brutal pace. you can only nod your head and pull your legs closer to your chest to help him hit deeper. you can feel anton everywhere, and you can see his curls bounce above your head as the ends become heavy from sweat. you can only pout, feeling your own eyes become teary from all the emotions.

“anton.” you whimper his name pitifully. anton puts one of your legs over his shoulder to free your hand so he can hold it.

“i know.” anton coos. he moans at the new angle and squeezes your hand tighter. “i know.”

when anton presses his lips to yours, you walls spasm around his dick again. this time anton doesn’t stop, driving his hips into yours while his name falls from your lips a million times. anton uses it as motivation, using the last bit of self control he has left to fuck you through your orgasm. when your legs become weak and anton’s name turns into incoherent babbles, he goes back into your neck.

“where can i?” he huffs.

you let your hands press into his shoulder blades, bringing his sweaty chest to yours.

“anywhere” you clench around anton, feeling yourself getting week. “don’t make a mess.” you mumble.

“fuck.”

anton can’t hold on any longer, especially when your lips attach to his neck sucking harshly. he twitches inside of you and he goes as deep as he can one more time before stilling inside of you. your back arches from the ground when you feel him cum inside of you, hot and sticky in spurts. each time anton twitches inside of you his whole body shudders, and he lets out a sigh you think he’s been holding in for years. his grip of your hand never loosened, still white-knuckled as he presses your hand into the sheet. you let your leg wrap around anton to keep his waist in place and it’s your turn to coo at him now.

you two stay like that, sweaty chests heaving as anton stays inside of you. neither of you want to pull away, and you feel a pang in your chest when you can feel anton’s cum seep out of you. he pulls out, whole body shuddering as he slides out of you.

anton taps your bent knee affectionately, and you nod your head as you try to breathe normally again. anton looks around the studio before pushing off your knee.

you see him meander around the studio for a second before wlaking to the paint stained sink. anton turns on the water and washes his hands before pulling out more paper towels than necessary.

he comes back to your body on the floor, wiping away the cum that seeped out of you and drying your sweaty face with another paper towel. you can only smile as anton cleans you up, and when he’s done he grabs your face in both of his hands and presses a fat kiss to your lips. both of you smile when he pulls away, and you run your hand through his curly hair.

“how much time do you have left?” anton asks.

#requestz #01zfan: anton #anton smut #riize smut

377 notes · View notes

cameronspecial · 3 days

Note

i can send a few if you want.

because i liked I boy by sabrina carpenter

rafe's "ex" hasn't moved on, they weren't really dating she fell in love but he didn't. six months later he's head over heels in love with reader, there's comes in the song and rafe reassures her she isn't a homewrecker or a slut. just fluffy rafe with that angsty song

Who I Am

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Derogatory Name Calling

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 0.5K

Masterlist

Y/N groans as she sees another piece of paper under her windshield wiper. The pink colour clues her in on what it is about. For the past week, she has been finding threatening notes on rose stationery everywhere she goes. At first, they started out as simple statements. He isn’t yours. You stole him. Then they escalated to calling her names. You’re a homewrecking bitch. He was mine, Slut. She tries to pretend they haven’t gotten to her, but she’s gotten so many that they could fill a semi-truck and they slowly begin to get under her skin. Her hand grabs the new note, opening it with one hand. “We were going to get married until you came along, Homewrecker,” she reads herself. She has told Rafe about them, not thinking it is important enough to concern him. However, this note in particular gets to her. She doesn’t know why she believes the note; she just gets an unsettling feeling about it. Her mind runs wild with the thought of Rafe waiting at the altar for another woman and then she comes into the picture and stops the whole celebration.

The paper is shoved into her back pocket and she gets into her car to head home. Rafe is waiting for her at home with a wide grin. When she doesn’t return the happiness, he frowns. “What’s wrong, Sweet Pea?” he worries, rushing to bring her into his arms. Her bottom lip rests between her teeth, “I need to show you something.” He doesn’t object as she takes his hand and drags her to their room. She grabs something from under her bed, pulling out a box. The notes are revealed once she opens them. She hands them over to him for him to read. Silence falls in the room as he reads through them. His mouth purses and she sees him bite the inside of his mouth.

“When did you start getting these?” he questions. She picks out the first one, “Last week. Do you know who sent them? Is what they say true? Is that who I am?” He drops the paper and steps closer to her, enveloping her in a hug. His lips pepper her face in kisses. “No. No. No,” he disagrees. “You aren’t a homewrecker or a slut.” “Then why is she saying these things?” she cries, starting to grow frustrated. He caresses the back of the head and leads her to sit on the bed. “I went out on a couple of dates with Tiffany about a year ago and then she fell head over heels for me. I broke up with her when she started planning our wedding after our third date. She didn’t take it well,” he explains. She looks at him through wet lashes, “So you didn’t cheat on her with me or break up with her because of me?” He wipes the tears from her eyes and runs his thumb over her cheekbones. “I didn’t. I will admit. You may not be my first love, but you are my favourite and my last.” She sighs at his confirmation and relaxes in his hold. Even though they have only been dating for six months, she has to admit that she is madly in love with him and she is glad she didn’t take him from someone else. “Now, how about we go stargaze on the trampoline while listening to the Black Eyed Peas,” he proposes, steering her to the backyard. It’s true, they are both smitten with each other and they spent the night cuddled under the stars.

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @thepatriarchykeychain @drewsmusee @starkowswife @maybankslover @forstarkey @loving-and-dreaming @magicalyoura @rubixgsworld

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #outer banks #rafe cameron imagine #outer banks fanfiction #outer banks imagine #outer banks x reader

266 notes · View notes

asapeveryday · 11 hours

Text

SHOCK FACTOR ★彡 PART 4

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Rival!Reader

Warnings: swearing

A/n: I hate this ngl 😣 didn’t turn out that great. I swear I’ll do better

“ITS TEN PM, why the fuck are you at my hotel right now?”

Elaine gives an unbothered look at your harsh tone, which shocks you because she’s usually more reactive.

“Seriously?” You scoff. She’d been standing stupidly outside of your door for god knows how long, spamming your phone with messages you didn’t see due to Paige taking it. “You don’t even have a key to my room…what did you think you’d accomplish?”

“It’s a Saturday night, I thought I’d take you out.” She rolls her eyes. “Plus I know your teammates are partying right now. Sorry I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“Well maybe I would’ve liked to be alone, since I didn’t answer the 40 texts and calls you gave me.” You say, opening the room up and stepping inside, letting her follow behind. If you were going to argue it wouldn’t be in the hallway for everyone to hear.

“Well you weren’t alone, were you?” Elaine quips with a rude tone that is foreign for you to hear from her.

“So what if I wasn’t?” You narrow your eyes. “I didn’t come to Connecticut just to see you.”

She’s immediately stung by this, and you feel bad for a split second until she retaliates. “Well you came to Storrs for me, right? Unless you were just trying to fuck Paige Bueckers and leave. You and your little fake arguments, you sure you’re not covering up for something?”

“You’re kidding.” You laugh at her, but it’s uncomfortable. “You think I’m faking my arguments to cover up some elaborate hookup? Shit, you’re crazy.”

“I’m not fucking crazy,” Elaine voice raises above yours, clearly hurt by the comment. “I don’t know why you’re all over the chick, and going out to dinner with her? It’s weird.”

“I don’t know why you care so much. That’s what’s weird.”

“I just think you should keep your distance from Paige.” She says, quieter. “The media has been all over you two, I don’t know if you’ve noticed but it’s overwhelming.”

“Obviously not if I don’t know this already.” You raise your eyebrow. “Guess it’s been overwhelming for you though.”

Elaine is quiet for a moment, arms crossed in an attempt to comfort herself. “I’m sorry.” She says. “I guess I’ve just been jealous. You came to see me after like a year, and I kinda felt like you were more focused on Paige then me.”

At the thought of this you immediately feel awful. You hadn’t seen Elaine for a long time, and when you have been with her you were admittedly distracted.

“I’m sorry Lainey.” You sigh out. “I haven’t been here long…It’s just been a lot. We have the rest of the week.” You hold out your arms and she gladly hugs you tight.

“I’m not gonna lie,” you mumble against her “I thought you were mad about Paige for a whole other reason.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” You shake your head, brushing off the thoughts of her jealousy being a little different from how she explained. “Let’s go out. I need a drink.”

You tried to go out and have fun, but your mind kept wandering to earlier. Paige’s hands on your face, her mouth hovering above yours, her eyes staring through you. The memory of her knuckles white and wrapped around the steering wheel as she drove you back home, a pent up expression on her face.

You weren’t sure if she was so annoyed because your moment with her was interrupted, or because Elaine was the one who interrupted it. Despite Paige dismissing your friend, and Elaine seemingly missing your company, you knew there was something going on between them. You just weren’t sure what, and the shots you’d done didn’t help collect your thoughts.

Elaine had been with you for a bit, but eventually went off on her own to get detrimentally more drunk then you planned on getting. You were sitting at a table alone and sipping when you got a notification.

paigebueckers is going live!

You switch to a burner account before joining the live and being greeted with Paige’s straight face reading comments while KK hung out in the background. You felt pathetic watching her live anonymously, but you needed to see her.

“Someone said ‘Ain’t it too late for ya’ll?’” Paige scoffs, turning to KK

“Girl, it’s a Saturday. Who you think we are?” KK quips back, enticing a chuckle from Paige that makes your stomach flutter.

They take turns answering questions; Paige gracefully dodging the less appropriate ones and KK occasionally reading something that makes everyone go crazy. They were so funny together you almost forgot how sad it was that you were in a bar watching their live.

KK looks at the chat for a longer moment before her eyebrows raise, mouth forming an amused smirk while glancing at Paige, who is turned away from the phone and looking at something off screen.

“Aye Paige, someone said ‘u still beefin’ with (name)?’”

Paige flashes a dangerous look to KK who unsurprisingly cowers a bit, but she turns towards the camera and rubs her face sheepishly while responding. “S’ not really beef. We jus don’t get along.”

“Oh?” KK responds, this obviously being news to her.

Blue eyes finally meet the camera, and you almost feel like she’s staring right at you when she says “and I’m tired of people comparing me to her. We are not on the same level.” Paige lets out an entitled huff. “It’s embarrassing. People think just cus we talked like twice we’re equal.”

KK nudges her quickly. “She don’t mean that ya’ll.” She says nervously.

“Nah, I do. I mean she’s not bad. She just don’t got nothing on me.” Paige shrugs. “She’s boring. No shock factor.”

“Aight ya’ll I think that’s it for tonight.” KK says curtly, eyeing Paige. The live ends in an instant, and you’re left feeling hurt, embarrassed, confused and angry. This didn’t feel like an attack on your skill as a basketball player. It was more personal, and Paige knows it.

Your mind is racing from the countless drinks, loud atmosphere and eventful live you’d just watched. You shoot Juju a text and ask her to go live with you, and she surprisingly responds in an instant. The viewers are scarily high right from the get go.

“Who came here from Paige’s live?”

“Ain’t no way she’s at a bar rn”

“Aye (name) how’s Connecticut?”

“lowk think her and Paige are hooking up”

“juju can you say hi pls”

“Hey guys.” You mutter, attempting to steady your voice. Juju raises an eyebrow at your state. “You sure you shud be on live right now?” She asks. “Who’re you even with?”

“Never mind that.” You shake your head, reading through the comments. “Hiii guys. Connecticut’s alright, Storrs is a shithole though.” You laugh.

“Missing California?” Juju asks.

Sighing, you reply “Very much so.”

“Sooo, let’s talk bout your new friend!” Juju smirks, most probably unaware of Paige’s newest comment about you.

“And who would that be?”

“Paige Bueckers, duh. Must be nice to see her in person outside of the court.” Juju says innocently, not paying attention to the increase of questions in the chat concerning Paige’s live.

“Nice isn’t quite the word I would use.” You grumble, and Juju immediately seems to regret bringing it up. She tries to save the situation by asking something else, but you interrupt her. “I think the word disappointing…or maybe shitty fits better.”

“Hah, you’re funny.” Juju attempts to seem amused, but is clearly trying to figure out how she can work in some damage control. She furiously types something out and you get a message from her a moment later

JUJU-KINS 😘

Girl get tf off of live RIGHT NOW and get yo self home and in bed. Ur so drunk.

Seen.

Ignoring the text, you continue to read questions out loud. Your body is practically on fire and you’re aware that you’re not thinking straight, but there are no intentions of stopping now. Paige certainly couldn’t have enough of talking big online, so why should you?

“‘Weren’t you just with Paige at a coffee shop yesterday?’” You read out loud. “Not intentionally.” You huff, eyebrows narrowing. “The girl can’t accept I’m tryna have a peaceful vacation. For whatever reason I keep seeing her everywhere, it’s not even funny, just fucking weird.”

“(Name) I think we should put the phone down.” Juju says quietly.

“Mm, it’s not even my problem she thinks ‘m boring anyways.” You grumble, words starting to slur. “Mayyybe I’m boring cus I don’t wanna fuckin’ talk to her n her shitty Italian restaurant.”

The chat begins to blow up at this, and it finally hits you how much damage you’ve just done. “M’kay bye.” You rush out, quickly ending the live and texting Juju back.

YOU

howw fucked am i scale of 1-10

JUJU-KINS 😘

We not even in numbers anymore atp.

Get yo ass up and go home pls. This is an issue for tmr now

Your head is starting to pound as you get up from your spot and push through people in search of Elaine, thankfully she finds you first, half stumbling-half intentionally bumping into you. She’s obviously wasted.

“Ready to go homeee?” She hiccups, accepting your hand as help to balance herself. “I’m gonna call an Uber.” You reply. “Can we wait outside?”

The two of you practically tumble out of the bar, the cold air slightly sobers you up, and clarifies your thoughts a bit. You feel yourself start to get irritated.

“Do you have to get so fuckin’ drunk every time we go out?” You huff out.

“Don’t start.” Elaine snaps. “You’re literallyyyy slurring your words.”

“At least I can walk,” you scoff. Your head is absolutely aching now, and you’re dying to be home. “You look so stupid tripping around.”

“Well you look stupid feining over Paige, goin live n shit talking her.” She retaliates.

“I’m not feining for shit.”

“You’re obsessed.” Elaine slurs. “N’ I’ll tell you what. She’s going to play your ass and you’re never gonna get over it, cus that’s what she does.”

“You know way more about her then you let on.” You narrow your eyes, unsurprised when she avoids your gaze. “How’d you even know I was out with her today anyways?”

She’s quiet, you can’t tell if she’s thinking or if she’s genuinely ignoring you.

“Elaine.” You say sharply. “How the fuck did you know I was out with Paige?”

“I have her location.” She mumbles.

“What?”

“She still shares her location me.”

“She still…” you pause, attempting to understand what she’s saying. “She shares her location with you?”

“I mean, I don’t think she knows she hasn’t turned it off.” Elaine says sheepishly. “I just happened to check n’ I saw you guys together.”

“This is so fuckin’ weird.” You scoff. “What happened to you guys barely knowing each other?”

“Yeah, well that’s what I told you.” She rolls her eyes.

“And what didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m surprised she didn’t tell you.” Elaine shrugs, eyes heavy.

“We used to fuck.”

The immediate regret on her face as the words leave her mouth makes you sick to your stomach, and a swirl of unintelligible emotions begin to manifest inside of you.

“And you didn’t tell me this because?”

“Didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

“Why’d you try to get me to flirt with her that first day at the bar?”

She shakes laughs and her head. “Didn’t think you’d actually end up talking to her, didn’t think she’d be so interested in you either. You’re not really her type.”

Exasperated and unsure how to even articulate what you’re feeling, you simply bring your hands to your face. “Do you understand how fucking weird this is?”

“Don’t get so frustrated.” She scoffs. “You’ve talked to her for like three days, n’ you thought she was a dick before this week. Don’t tell me you’re into her now.”

“It’s not even about her at this point.” You sneer. “I don’t know who the fuck you are, and I don’t know why everyone here is fucking obsessed with lying.”

When she doesn’t respond you take the opportunity to get more in, facing her now and looking down in disappointment. “I didn’t even know you liked girls, and now you’re telling me you’ve been hooking up with someone I know? God, it makes sense now why you were so quick to start insulting her the minute she showed any interest in me.”

Elaine can’t even bring herself to look at you, and the fact that she’s so drunk she might not even be digesting what you’re saying is infuriating you.

“Then you guilt trip me about not paying enough attention to you? Was that really what was bothering you, or was it the fact that she was out with me?”

Taking a deep breath, you turn your back to her and check your phone to see when your uber was coming. You also see a text message.

PAIGE

Normally you’d have ignored any message from her after today, but your mind was still racing from adrenaline and you couldn’t help but respond.

YOU

what do u want

PAIGE

Are you still at that bar?

I feel like we shud talk

YOU

you gonna tell me why you lied to my face?

i’m with Elaine rn

PAIGE

Oh uh…

I can pick both u guys up and drop her off ? If u want.

YOU

i’m not riding in the car you prolly fucked her in

bye

PAIGE

Typing…

#Spotify #fanfiction #fanfic #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #rpf #paige bueckers x reader #uconn women’s basketball #paige buckets #paige x reader #rivals to lovers #rivalry #light angst

246 notes · View notes

mieczyslawsravenclaw · 2 days

Text

Good Morning, Mr Reid... - Spencer Reid

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

Pairing - Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Rating - 18+, Minors DNI - Smut - NSFW!!!

Summary / Prompt - When you wake up sweet Spencer with your wet dream, he can’t help but need to make your dreams a reality.

Warnings / Content - smutty smut smut lmao, being woken up by sexy times but that’s about it I think? (Nope also piv unprotected and nutting inside, I'm shit at proofreading the first time >_<)

Word Count - 900-ish

Author’s Note(s) - Bit shorter than my usual but this idea popped into my head and I wanted to try writing from Spence’s pov so here this is! Hopefully my fellow Horny-For-Reid girlies enjoy~

Additional Tags - Spencer is needy for you, smart boy is dumb for the meow-meow, consent is STILL IMPORTANT BABES

Spencer Reid was no stranger to being woken up by a myriad of things - his job was usually the top culprit. But this morning, it was you that pulled his focus into being. At first, he thought something might be wrong from the noises you were making. But after a moment of watching you, clearing his sleep-bleary eyes, he realized that was hardly the case.

“Spence…” It was a breathy sigh, almost tricking him into thinking you were awake. Were you? No, he decided; Apart from the fact that your breathing was more suited for someone in the throes of unconsciousness, your eyes were shut and you didn’t respond when he softly murmured your name. Dreaming, then.

About him, from the continued speaking of his name. It was a crime, really, to look that pretty when you weren’t even aware of it. Spencer was just enthralled with watching the way your face scrunched, he almost missed the way your hands were moving down to- oh. It was that kind of dream, then.

His eyes widened, already feeling the familiar tension of his cock straining against his boxers as you touched yourself, so unaware and still so pretty. Your voice a whine, begging him, please Spence please - he could think of nothing he wanted more than to give you whatever you wanted. You’d talked before about this sort of thing - it had never come about, until now. Waking you up with his touch, his cock to fill you up as the first thing you felt during the day.

He’d been cautious, as consent was a serious subject - but you’d assured him that, if ever there were a time that it called to him, he was more than welcome to do so. He was grateful for his eidetic memory, the echoing of those words in his mind now to settle where this was going.

But he wanted to watch a little longer, whether that was selfish or not, he didn’t know- and didn’t really care. Seeing your chest rise and fall while you messed with your bundle of nerves, still quietly begging him for something, anything, was enough to spur him into reaching for himself. The slow pumping of his fist and the sight before him pulled a low groan from Spencer; he tried to keep quiet, but it was a challenge. With you in front of him, doing that…really, could you blame him?

“Baby…” He sighed, eyes darting between your face and your hands, to the thin fabrics that kept you from him, for now. “Wanna be inside you. Can I be inside you?”

Your eyes fluttered a bit, but nothing more in response. Spencer was almost desperate, he needed to feel you wrap around him, so tight and warm-

“Baby,” He tried again, more of a whine than anything else. His free hand pulled you closer, nuzzling his face into the soft skin of your neck. “I need you, need you so bad-“

“Mmm…Spence…”

He rutted up against you; the brushing of your wetness against him, coupled with the way your arms instinctively moved to wrap around him, just made him need it even more. His hands slid your panties to the side, far too dire of a need to even bother with removing them completely. He took a moment to line himself up and pushed into you, letting out a deep moan that lilted into your name at the end.

“Fuck, so tight, baby,” He groaned, kissing your neck. He felt you rustle beneath him, a little groan escaping you.

“Morning to you, too,” You murmured back, a small laugh caught up in the way he felt pressing against your walls. “Thought I was dreaming there for second.”

“For a second, you were.” He amended, pulling back to give you a kiss. “I thought this could be a perfect time to test out that idea you had.”

“I’m certainly not complaining,” You gripped his shoulders as he thrusted deeper, earning noises from the both of you. “Couldn’t even wait long enough to get me naked, huh?”

Your teasing made him flush. “I- well, I just-“

“IQ of 187, and it all folds and disappears for me.” You smirked, and were quickly distracted again once he pushed further inside of you. “Fuck, Spence-“

“Not just me, huh?” He huffed, lifting your leg up to hit further back. “Not my fault you’re so pretty, I just wanna fill you up.”

“Please, do.”

“Say it for me.”

“Please, Spence, fill me up,” You cried out as he hit the spongy spot in tandem with rubbing against your clit, just how he knew you liked. “Fuck, I want you to cum in me, please-“

“Wanna see you cum first,” He groaned, rolling you over so he could lift both your legs to his shoulders. His own orgasm was impending, threatening to spill over, but he needed it to be you first.

“Don’t stop, Spence-“ Your nails dug crescents into his back before falling to the sheets, white knuckled as you told him, “Just a few more- I’m so close, I’m so-oh!”

Your release triggered Spencer’s own, no more willpower to hold back from it once he felt you shake and tighten around him. “Fuck,” he whimpered, “Me too, baby, me too,” and with your gentle praises he spilled over into you with a deeply pleasured moan.

You laid there together for a bit, not bothering to detach from one another until Spencer mentioned the need for cleaning you up.

“Well, are we going to shower, or are we going to fuck in the shower?” You smirked.

He was already getting hard again at the thought.

#spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid

263 notes · View notes

uzurakis · 17 hours

Note

hi kiara! can you please make a continuation of “their act of intimacy” but with gojo, toji, and sukuna? i melted the first time i read them with the other characters 😭 hope you have a good day ahead of you ❤️

THEIR ACT OF INTIMACY?

featuring: gojo satoru. ryomen sukuna. toji fushiguro.

n. aaa thanku for liking the previous one! this is for you nonnie <3 didn’t really proofread cause i’m running late on sleep lol. PART ONE HERE :0

GOJO SATORU. gojo finds it calming when you both take a shower together. however, his notion of "calming" may differ from the ordinary. instead of drowsing in warm water and doing all those private things such as soaping his back and shampooing his hair, you and him sometimes have other spontaneous ideas in mind.

as the warm water cascaded down, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of closeness that's as comforting as it is exhilarating. satoru, with his irrepressible charm and mischievous grin, stood beside you, his presence filled the space with a playful energy.

"ah, feels like heaven," he sighed, whilst eyes gleaming with shenanigans. you chuckled, reaching for the shampoo. “don’t start a water fight again, satoru. let us enjoy a nice and relaxing—“

but before you could react, a splash of water hit you square in the face, causing you to sputter and laugh. “gotcha!" the man exclaimed, his laughter echoed through the tiled walls.

"it’s sooo on now!" you declared, retaliating with a splash of your own.

and just like that, the bathroom transformed into a battleground, with water flying in every direction as you both engaged in your playful antics. amidst the laughter and the splashing, there's an undeniable sense of joy that filled the room.

"careful, satoru," you warned, dodging his playful advances, "you're going to get soap in your eyes."

but he just grinned. "not before you get ‘em first, babe.”

and so, you guys continued your playful banter. soaked to the bone and grinning from ear to ear, gojo satoru defines his own calming moments with you.

RYOMEN SUKUNA. your boyfriend is a big guy, or so he believes before you swoop in and baby him. does he resist? yes. but will he eventually agree? absolutely.

the aroma of freshly cooked pasta filled the air as you stood in the kitchen. across the room, your boyfriend, sukuna, leaned against the counter, watching you with a bemused expression. you took a small portion with a spoon in hand, "say 'a' for me, sukuna.”

"hell nah.” his face was holding back the disgust. “you know, i can feed myself, right?"

"come on, baby, just one bite," you urged, eyes pleading. he hesitated for a moment, then sighed, giving in to you. “no—tsk, fine.”

“just this once.”

as he reluctantly opened his mouth, you couldn't help but suppress a giggle at the sight of him being spoon-fed like a child. your boyfriend’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and he quickly swallowed the pasta, avoiding your gaze.

"see, that wasn't so bad, was it?" you teased, unable to contain your amusement.

he grumbled something unintelligible in response, but as you proceeded to feed him, he took every piece and never turned it down until the last bite.

TOJI FUSHIGURO. toji never declines your offer to groom him. he rarely takes attention to his appearance, whereas you insist on cleaning up him up and do it with your own hands. at first, he doesn't think of it as intimate thing because isn’t it just about cutting and shaving? but as time goes on, he understands how much you value him and treasures the time you spent solely on him.

the soft glow of evening light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm hue over the cozy living room. toji sat on the couch, his unkempt hair falling into his eyes. you watched him from afar with a fond smile tugging at your lips.

“toji,” you called out. “your hair has gotten longer than the last time i remember.” he chuckled softly, already accustomed to this routine. "is it that time again?"

with scissors and a comb in hand, you approached him with a smile. “c’mere, sit down, baby.”

letting a shrug plus a grin, the man complied, settling onto the stool you'd placed in the middle of the room. as you draped a towel around his shoulders, his eyes met yours in the mirror.

"you know, i understand why you enjoy doing this so much.” he admitted, leaning back as you began to comb through his hair.

"you know why?” you replied, your voice soft as you worked. "it's about taking care of each other, babe. showing love in the little things."

he fell silent at your words, mulling them over as you continued to trim away stray strands. gradually, the tension seemed to melt from his shoulders, replaced by a sense of ease and contentment.

@uzurakis — requests are open! <3

246 notes · View notes

spaceman-earthgirl · 1 day

Text

“Did you see this?” Lena asks, holding her phone out towards Kara. “It’s about your cousin.”

Kara’s instantly worried. If there’s a news article about Clark, there’s only two things it could be. One, he’s been in a big fight or something else dangerous has happened, or if it’s about Clark, and not Superman, then that could only spell bad news for Clark and his secret identity.

Kara’s heart actually stops for a moment when she sees “Clark Kent” in the headline, but lets out a sigh of relief when she realises it’s not a Daily Planet article, but an article from an online gossip magazine.

Lois Lane and Clark Kent, Metropolis’s Hottest New Couple?

Kara quickly scans the article, which is nothing but gossip, and two photos, one of Clark and Lois holding hands, another of the couple leaning close at a restaurant.

Kara smiles as she hands the phone back to Lena. Despite the lack of privacy some papparazi have, Kara is happy for her cousin.

“So, it’s true then?”

Kara nods. “It is. Clark called me last week. He was so happy they’re soulmates. Anyone with eyes could see they belong together but it’s nice to have it confirmed.”

And nice for Kara too. She’d always wondered if it was still possible that she could have a soulmate, one not from Krypton.

Turns out it is.

“That’s-“ Lena cuts herself off. “Wait, confirmed? What do you mean?”

Kara’s eyes widen as she realises her slip. She’s thought about telling Lena in so many different ways, at so many different times. But fear has always stopped her. What if she told Lena the truth, what if they kissed, and she finds out Lena isn’t her soulmate?

Kara’s never felt this way about anyone before, doesn’t think she could ever feel like this about anyone else either.

“I…do you believe in soulmates?” Kara asks, stalling slightly.

“No.” Lena replies. “Or I didn’t, until you just implied that soulmates are real.”

read the rest on ao3 or under the cut

Kara sighs. There’s no getting out of this. “They’re not real, at least not on Earth. Or not usually. Lois is the only human I’ve seen or heard of that has a soulmate. Clark and Lois are soulmates. All Kryptonian’s have one.”

“Are you…” Lena narrows her eyes. “You’re being serious?”

Kara nods. “The legend goes that Rao picks your soulmate, the person whose soul matches yours, the one most suited to you. But he doesn’t tell you who it is, you have to find that person yourself.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, they just find each other.” Kara had lost hope, with no one but her cousin left on Earth. But then she’d found Lena. Even before Clark had told her about Lois, she’d wondered if Lena could be her soulmate. “And then after your first kiss, a mark appears on your skin with their name, and that’s how you know they’re the one.”

Kara can see Lena’s mind working. “Does that mean Clark and Lois now have the other’s name written on each other?”

Kara laughs. “Yes. It was actually pretty funny when Clark called me, he’d had to explain to a very confused Lois why she now had a tattoo of Clark’s name.”

“So, you have to kiss someone to know?”

Kara nods. “I’m not sure why. I think it gives you a chance to get to know someone before you find out you’re destined to be together.”

“Have you found your soulmate?”

Kara shakes her head, though it feels wrong when she’s pretty sure her soulmate is right in front of her. Not that she knows for sure. “Not yet.”

“Do you wonder, every time you kiss someone, that they’ll be the one?”

“Yes and no. When I was younger, I’d hoped, just to prove I wasn’t alone. Sometimes I know they’re not the one, but now I know there’s someone out there for me, and I just have to wait.”

Lena lets out a little laugh. “I guess it puts more pressure on a first kiss, like there isn’t enough already.”

Kara laughs too. “It really does.” She can’t help but wonder, that without this extra pressure, whether she would have already told Lena how she feels.

“Who knows,” Lena says, still smiling. “It could even be me.”

Kara chokes on nothing. The hand that appears at Kara’s back, soothing up and down as Kara tries to catch her breath, doesn’t help at all.

“It…it could be,” Kara finally manages to get out.

Lena looks amused, clearly enjoying Kara’s struggle, and Kara suddenly wants to do nothing more than kiss that look off of Lena’s face.

Lena shrugs. “We’ve never kissed so you never know.”

“I haven’t kissed a lot of people,” Kara points out unnecessarily. “It could be any of them too.” She’s not sure why she says it, except for the fact she wants to point the focus of the conversation away from Lena and kissing.

“Well, you’re not getting any younger, you need to start crossing people off that list.”

Kara rolls her eyes and suddenly everything feels back to normal, she’s just talking to her best friend, the person besides Alex she trusts most in the universe.

“Are you hungry, we could-“ Kara starts, assuming the conversation is over, at least for now, until Kara can work up the courage to tell Lena how she feels, but Lena isn’t done.

“Kara,” Lena cuts in, looking suddenly serious. “I don’t know if I’m way off here but I know I’m not going to be able to stop thinking about this.” Lena reaches out and takes Kara’s hand and Kara’s breath catches in her chest. “Please tell me you feel this too? Please tell me I’m not the only one who’s fallen in love with their best friend? I didn’t even believe in soulmates before today but I’ve always believed we found each other for a reason, that we belong together. And maybe this is why.”

There are tears in Lena’s eyes by the time she finishes talking and Kara’s own heart is racing as she reaches up to catch a tear before it spills down Lena’s cheek.

And then she doesn’t even think as she leans forward, capturing Lena’s lips in a kiss she’s dreamt about too many times to count.

Lena’s breath catches as their lips meet and now Kara’s crying too as Lena’s hand grips her shirt, holding her close.

The kiss is brief, only because Kara’s forgotten something crucial and she has to tell Lena. “I love you, too,” Kara says as she pulls back, the words brushing Lena’s mouth as she does.

Kara’s whole body is on fire as green eyes meet hers, still so close. Kara doesn’t even need to look down to where her arm is tingling, to know that Lena’s her soulmate. She’s pretty sure deep down she’s known since she first laid eyes on her.

With great effort she does look away from Lena, only because she wants to show Lena the words now written on her skin.

Kara pulls up her sleeve and there it is, in black ink, undeniable against her tan skin. There is Lena’s name, and Kara is crying again.

“That’s going to be tough to hide,” Lena says, and it’s meant to be a joke but it comes out too breathless to be anything but awe. Lena lifts her hand, runs her fingers gently over the name, and Kara’s knees go weak.

“Do you…” Kara asks, because now she wants to see it, needs to see her name on Lena’s skin too.

Lena turns, and she must have had the same feeling as Kara because she lifts up her shirt and there it is, low on Lena’s back, ‘Kara Zor-El’ written clear as day.

Kara reaches out, thumb ghosting over the spot her name is written.

“It is there?” Lena asks, voice filled with such hope that Kara places her hands on her arms, spins her gently until they’re facing each other again.

“Yes.” Kara lifts her hands, cups Lena’s cheek, thumbs catching more tears as they fall. They both know they’re happy tears. “I love you,” Kara repeats, because she can now. She’s going to say it so many times, Lena will get sick of it.

“I love you, too,” Lena repeats, her smile so bright Kara’s knees go weak again. And then Lena leans forward and kisses her again and Kara is lucky she manages to stay upright because Lena’s mouth feels so right and perfect against her own.

---

Two days later, in the CatCo gossip column, there’s a picture of the two of them kissing in Noonan’s, with the title:

Lena Luthor and Kara Danvers, National City’s Hottest New Couple?

#supergirl #kara danvers #lena luthor #supercorp #supercorp fanfic

369 notes · View notes

iwaasfairy · 1 day

Text

┌─ “ ! „ HEARTBEAT

tw. pseudocest, noncon, possessiveness, grooming?, age gap, blood, murder, a lot of trauma bonding

wordcount. 6k

a/n. thank yoUUUU rhi for betaing you are my favorite as alwaysssss I love you soooo much ♡♡

okkotsu yuuta x fem!reader

Blood is splattered on the ground of the dirty alley, and there’s another heavy thump when his kick once again lands on the kid’s skull and he moans in pain. He calls him a kid in his head because he’s got that shit-faced little attitude, and now an ugly gap where his front teeth used to sit, but he should be old enough to know better. As a couple passes by the narrow street, he shields things from view a little, before using the long edge of his sheathed sword to push the dumb, bloody face to the side. Because his eyes are starting to look like two overripe tomatoes from the impact, he couches down before the sandy brunet.

“You know what this is about?” Yuuta’s voice is hoarse. He hadn’t really noticed it before, but it’s been a busy week cleaning up your messes. Don’t get him wrong, he doesn’t mind. If anything, it makes him feel sort of useful. You’re good and kind and don’t get into trouble on purpose — which is why he’s here late at night making sure things get handled. Niisan’s got it, after all. He doesn’t bother to clear his voice. “Hey.”

“Take my cash,” the young man below him now whistles through the missing teeth, teary eyes darting around as he pats his hand all over himself to look for a wallet.

Yuuta scoffs. “I don’t want your money. If I did, you think I’d waste my time beating your face in like you had it coming?” The anxious, almost nervous lilt to his own voice doesn’t escape him. If you could see him now, you’d probably say that he was enjoying this too much - and while he is, the idea of this getting back to you doesn’t escape his mind. It won’t though, logically speaking. The kid probably wouldn’t be able to see straight for a couple hours, and you will never find out. “I want to know why you’re hanging around Rika’s kid sister.”

“Kid? W- I don’t know any Rika!” He yelps when he tries to lift his head and gets the handle of the weapon hit hard onto the bridge of his nose again, adding more blood to the mess that’s running all over the bottom of his face. Yuuta really can’t see it, lifting his top lip in slight disgust. Handsome, where? Just as much as this boy isn’t really a kid anymore, neither are you. But you’re younger, and deserving of protection — is it really so bad he wants to imagine you as his baby sister for a bit longer before you start trying to escape from under his wings?

Not that you’re going to go anywhere.

“I don’t know a Rika,” the blond whines again now, hiding his face into his hands to drool and hiccup against the cold floor.

“Orimoto Rika, has a kid sister.” Yuuta bites back, patience running really thin.

“O-I- I kn- oh, we’re in the same uni prep class!” He gets up to close his eyes and focus all his attention on not just kicking against his skull until the answers fall out. He knows that, how else would he even know to ask? The head damage takes it a few seconds to make the guy continue, sniffling. “We’re friends- or- my friend knew her. I liked her so we hung out a few times.” Yuuta’s hand is cold around the worn handle.

He takes a slow breath, watches the cloud of air as he lets it out. The promise ring glints in the light of the street, and it’s all familiarity and instinct that makes him brush his thumb over it. “Were you serious with her? Or did you tell her whatever so you could fuck her? Hm? Did you fuck my little sister?” The brunet snivels and whines under him when his foot lands back right before his face, demanding attention.

“I won’t talk to her anymore, I swear! I swear I w-won’t even - it’ll be like I never existed. Please.” The pitiful whining he’s doing, groveling like a dog below him - sort of reminds him of a younger him. Someone who didn’t have a purpose yet, and was scared of everything for it. The heavy weight of the ring clings to his hand when he lifts it to unsheath the katana, seeming to wrap a comforting palm around his own. If he could, he'd tangle fingers with her.

“P-please, let me go home! I didn’t do- I wouldn’t touch your s-sister, I didn’t know.”

“I hate guys who aren’t serious with her.” He clicks his tongue, and has to spit out the nasty taste that this entire situation leaves on his tongue. The weight of the sword is barely an inconvenience when both hands wrap around the handle properly. He’s doing this for Rika and him. Always. “She deserves so much better.” A mean flash of possession crosses his thoughts - how no one except him will ever be good enough. But he pushes it back, because that has nothing to do with why he’s doing this. Nothing.

“Yuuta~” Her voice haunts when he closes his eyes.

He’s in the sandpit of the Children’s hospital, rocking back and forth softly on the edge of it as he waits. The sun makes the sand nice and toasty, it warms his feet when he plants them down. “Yuuta!” It’s instinctive, when he looks up at the familiar voice. Rika’s hair travels in a perfect arc behind her when she runs to make it catch the light like a halo. Pretty blue dress making the shine of her hair even brighter, cheeks rosy, and her eyes glittering diamonds when they find his and she crashes down next to him. Her scraped knee is proof that it’s too hard, but he can’t help but smile when her cheek touches his arm on the landing.

Something hits the floor with a loud thump.

Yuuta turns over his shoulder to watch. There’s a smaller child that’s chin down on the earth behind them two, thick crocodile tears threatening to spill when Rika gasps. “Rika neechan~ Wait.” You pout, straightening up quicker than you should to reach your hands out to her. The girl hurries over to dust your cheeks off and drag you along behind her. It’s such a nice day out, Yuuta’s sweater is just thick enough to make his entire body warm. He stares at your face a little too long, before glancing between you two.

You’re still rounder than she is, but it’s undeniably eerie. “Your sister?” He asks softly, and Rika grins wide. She gently maneuvers you by the hand to sit next to her, then pulls you into a hug.

Her lips are pretty pink when she licks them. “This is Yuuta. Say ‘hi Yuuta’.” You parrot your sister obediently, as she waves your hand around at him. “Me and Yuuta are going to get married. So you should be very nice to him, okay?” Her sweet cheeks are the exact same as yours, long lashes and big, knowing eyes that always have him staring. You just look absentmindedly at the grass when Rika holds you into her side, but nod.

He smiles softly when your big eyes find his again. And Rika giggles. “And she’s gonna be your sister one day, so you gotta protect her well. We’re gonna be one happy family, promise?” She extends her arm to hold out a pinky finger at him. “That’s what I want.”

His fingers are pressing indents into your arm. It’s unusual. Yuuta’s always gentle, he’s soft and cares, but today his hand is screwed almost protectively tight around your upper arm, and you can’t say that you hate the feeling. Maybe childishly, you want him to squeeze even harder - so you’ll have no reason to get out.

You don’t come here a lot. Not since the accident tore open the painful scarred memory of it, but even before then, it wasn’t exactly your favorite place. It’s at Yuuta’s gentle prompting that you even managed to dress, and now walk however slowly between the low stone walls. The rain taps impatiently on the umbrella above, as the older boy casts you a careful glance. Then slowly bends to sit on his ankles, and grabs your hand ever so softly, meeting your eyes. His hands, though big enough to dwarf yours now, are almost velvety when they clasp around yours. It feels like he’s exponentially grown, while you’ve stayed pretty much the same.

Partly the illness. Mostly the age.

“Think you can go on?” he softly asks, kind eyes sympathetically regarding you. Like he’s making a judgment call about whether to turn back after all - debating the long walk back to the hospital. “I’ll be right here with you.”

“You’ve already gone before, haven’t you?” Your voice sounds a bit accusatory, a bit pouty too. Can’t be helped. Yuuta could be a living saint and you’d still find it hard. He clearly doesn’t take it to heart, because he smiles. His one hand then moves up to ruffle your hair.

“It’s still hard for me too, though,” his lips quirk up in an almost smile, but you can tell he doesn’t mean it. It’s sort of comforting to know that even someone like him feels it. Of course he would. Your neesan was family, but Yuuta probably knew her better than you ever could. He was beside her when she got out the two times, and was waiting when she had to get re-admitted. He was there when she got hit— there’s a comforting brush of your cheek when he stands back up and the umbrella gets so much higher. Yuuta blinks. “Come. I think you can do it.”

Your chubby cheeks flood with warmth, as you take his fingers into your hands with a nod. “Okay.”

It’s like this that you wind up at the headstone, stepping through dredged earth that’s been walked on too much. It seems to cling to the bottoms of your shoes with intent - you squeeze Yuuta nii’s hand tighter at the sight of the family grave. It now holds three of your kin in a warm embrace under the several bouquets of wilting flowers, and however morbidly, you think that maybe you’ll be joining soon. You’re young, but it’s not lost on you when the nurses send each other pitying looks.

“Is this where neesan’s buried?” Your voice sounds pinched and small, and sort of pathetic. You imagine Yuuta nii cried when he came to the funeral, but he wouldn’t have whined. You’re whining. You don’t want Yuuta to get fed up with you. Not when he’s the last semblance of ‘family’ you have left. After a while of staring blankly at the stone, he nods, and turns over his shoulder to smile at you again, pulling you a little closer to him. Your arms loop around his waist, staring down at the pretty whites that shake under the rain. “Is this where I’ll be buried when I die?”

He freezes. You feel bad about the double take he does when his spine goes more straight, rigid limbs dropping by his side as a deep, uncomfortable breath makes its way out. Your hands wring together instead.

However long it takes for him to unlock his limbs is however long you breathe through your tears as they well up stubbornly along your lash line, before your head is pulled to his ribs into an embrace. He swallows back emotion himself. “That’s not- I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I promise. I promise.”

“I’m sick-”

“No.” His eyes glint with something silvery when he takes your face between both hands and lets your childishness wash over him, clenching his jaw. “What happened to Rika was an accident- I- I couldn’t do anything then. But nothing’s going to happen to you as long as I’m here. I need- you to believe me.”

You don’t flinch when he uses your cheek to turn your face his way, but the urge still sits. His eyes study your face too intently, like he’s looking for something he can’t quite find. “I promised that I’d be a niichan that protects you.”

Rain splatters into a million glistening flecks as it meets the headstone.

“Okay,” you say.

It isn’t lost on you that his jaw is set too tight as he drags you back by the hand towards his bike, fist clenched around the umbrella. He breathes a tiny, ‘Later, Rika’ before turning on his heel. You don’t manage the same. Your voice gets stuck in your throat, even when he helps you up onto the bike rack in the back, pulling your face into his chest too tight- squeezes you to mold against him. He smells nice for a teen boy. The kiss he leaves on your crown is gentle, and leaves a soft warmth on your skin — You doubt it is really meant for you.

The door pushes open as you’re putting clips into your bangs, tongue trapped between your teeth. You cast Yuuta a glance through the mirror when he lingers at the door, and try to smile. “I’m almost ready.” You’re no longer too keen on fighting, the longer the silent treatment drags on. After a while of watching you with his arms crossed over his chest — he walks over to your bed to plop himself down and lets himself fall backward.

“I’m sorry,” the noiret sighs at nothing in particular, as you put on a necklace and after debating for a second, some perfume. The noise makes Yuuta look, studying you when you turn. It’s easy to forget sometimes that Yuuta didn’t have to stay with you, and he sure as hell didn’t have to give up a lot of his youth to take care of you like he does. Like your other family refuses to do when all the cards are on the table. He catches your stare. “You know I love you. I… worry when you’re not right here where I can see you. We stick together.”

“I know.” Your smile only barely makes your lips move, but you do mean it. You just wish realizations like this didn’t always have to come at the cost of fighting. “For what it’s worth, I’ll probably always forgive you.” You try to laugh, and brush your hair out of your eyes a final time before grabbing your bag. “I’m only going to be out for a few hours, max.”

Yuuta frowns when he sits up. His dark hair is brushed out of his face, damp and soft from the shower. “You’re still going?”

You blank. “Yeah, Himari and Shota are waiting for me. We’re going to see a movie.” He only has to let his eyes travel over your body and clothing once, for you to read what he’s thinking. You yank the edge of your skirt a bit lower, and pull your shoulders up. “What, what?! I can’t go out looking like this? It’s basically the same length as my uniform, what’s wrong with that?!”

“I didn’t say anything,” he breathes back, empty eyes regarding you with a static sort of- indifference, you guess.

“You don’t have to, niichan! God!” You turn to walk out the room, but Yuuta grabs your wrist when you pass by the bed. Sat down like he is, eyes tracing you like a lion- Yuuta no longer looks like the boy that used to draw stars on the ceiling of your hospital room for your amusement. Your cheeks heat when he basically glares straight at you for your attitude, and mulls the answer around in his mouth. Your anger subsides as you take a breath. This is the guy who makes you fresh apple juice in the morning, and calls you up between shifts. Because he cares. He just cares.

“Can I please go, Yuuta nii?”

After a few seconds, he clicks his tongue, staring at the edge of your skirt before tugging at it too, barely hiding a frown you can see dig between his brows. “You know I don’t like that Shota kid?”

Your lips jut out. “Yeah…” It’s getting awfully close to time to leave. You take a step back just to get his hands away from you. It’s distracting, and this is your brother you’re dealing with. “But he’s really nice. He started high school already but he used to be in my class the last three years, so… so you don’t have to worry. He knows I can’t do everything because I’m sick and he says—”

“Yeah, I’m sure he says everything you want to hear… You’re smarter than this. You don’t actually believe that.”

“He’s my friend.” A friend that makes your heart beat a bit faster when he smiles at you, but what’s it to him? “He doesn’t lie.”

Yuuta grimaces when you stare him down. “Don’t tell me about teenage boys, I used to be one.” He bristles before sitting up straighter, and though he’s technically below you, you still feel his energy tower as those big, dark eyes stay on your face. “Are you really ‘going to see a movie’? Or are you just going to sit in a boy’s room all night while I’m worried sick-”

You’re about ready to walk out, but his fingers are still looped around your wrist. “We are going to the movies! Himari and I! Just because a boy is there- ugh! Niichan, don’t make it weird!” The heat burns higher on your cheeks when you ball your fists, ignoring the pressure behind your eyes. This is so embarrassing. “I want to go.”

It’s quiet for much too long, making goosebumps appear all over your exposed skin. Then he breathes. “Come here.” His voice has more of an edge than it used to. You used to like the way your name fell from his lips. You’re not so sure you do anymore. Instead of storming out and forgetting all about him, you stare back at the sharpness in his eyes. When he pats his lap with familiarity, you jerk a brow. But you sit. His breath brushes along your neck too softly where he’s seated. It tickles on the way down.

It almost feels like… like he could wrap his hands around your neck and squeeze until you stopped struggling.

Yuuta nii wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t.

Fingers come to your necklace, undoing it, and it drops into your lap on the pretty, blue skirt. It’s suddenly much too cold in the room, and you resist the urge to wrap your arms around yourself. It’s fine. You’re fine. Yuuta is family.

Still the untouched skin of your neck feels too exposed.

If he notices your rigid posture, he doesn’t bother fixing it. Just reaches, then pushes your head forward. The childishly familiar pink, bedazzled heart he holds up instead glints, swaying from where you left it on your side table for the night. “You get back at 9,” his lower voice sounds, “or else I’m driving out to wherever you are and dragging you back to my car.” When you don’t say anything in response, he brushes away your hair from your shoulders.

“Yuuta nii,” you start, clamming up when he drapes the dainty thing around your throat and does the closure for you. “I wasn’t going to wear that one tonight.” You don’t always want to wear whatever Rika left behind until infinity.

“I think you will,” he breathes back, and kisses your exposed shoulder. It’s less sweet, more something to punctuate his statement. If he wasn’t so familiar and soft, you’d immediately fight against the way his strong arms wind around your waist to anchor you in his lap. “Just wear it.” His hands stay against your skin, long after he’s finished. Too long, and after seconds of sitting in the tense silence, you jerk up off his lap to grab your discarded bag from the floor. The other necklace drops to the carpet somewhere, but you don’t care.

“Fine,” you bring out tightly, before giving him a last look. Your bottom lip trembles a slight bit, so you suck it into your mouth to make it stop. And tears sting at the corners despite yourself. “Later, then.”

“Tell Himari that niichan says hello. It’s been so long since she’s been here.” He gets up from your bed too, and you resist the urge to rush out the room before him when he steps around you. You can’t fight the feeling that somehow… you were just caught in your lie. Your phone beeps in your bag, as Yuuta nii disappears around the corner. Shota, probably.

Blood. The door creaks, swings against the wind.

Dead.

You hope he’s dead. Blood pools at the center of the showers, sinks down the drain too slowly. It sticks to the pretty porcelain tiles of the old school locker room before the water gurgles it down.

They’re dead.

You don’t have to question it before it’s confirmed. Before the heavy, silver cleaver is lodged into the side of the already ruined skull. All of them. All of the boys of the soccer team seem to be present, though you don’t want to try and count. Counting makes it real. This shouldn’t be. The heavy thump makes way for a gross squelch when he yanks the metal out, and keeps the body down with his foot.

The spatters on his face are still wet. You can’t help the way your voice comes out when you breathe in deep and try to keep the tears from spilling over. The cleaver’s red and sticky and so is his hand, up to his forearm, his forehead from wiping his hair away. All of it, ruined.

“Y-yuuta nii?”

The metal door of the locker slams closed with the wind and hits you in the back, sending you skittering forward a few steps before you force the air out of your lungs with a stuttered pant.

With a soft smile, he turns over his shoulder. “Shhh.” The blood’s crusted under his nails when he presses a finger to his lips, then waves you closer. “Help niichan out?” His eyes glint over, before his smile goes a little wider, and he whips the blood off the weapon onto the ground. “S’ your fault I had to do this after all. We can clean up together. Hm?”

Your breathing is so shallow that you can feel your heartbeat in between your ears. You aren’t sure why you nod. The guilt tastes bitter on the way down.

Rika was dead on impact. She didn’t have a chance, even after she fought so vehemently against what took your mom. You know that. Even if she didn’t get struck by misfortune then, she might’ve not lived past her teens.

Yuuta doesn’t seem to know. He also doesn't seem to consider the same for you either— letting you toy with the edge of his shirt where you’re curled into him in your too-small bed. The hospital wants you back for another check-up.

It’s true that you’ve already outlived your sister, but that doesn’t mean it’ll last forever. Yuuta nii doesn’t want to hear it. As he brushes your hair with his fingers, you scratch the arm where the IV’s always get attached with an absent minded pout. Until Yuuta notices, pouting down at you. “Are you still feeling dizzy? I can make you some green tea if you’ll let go of me for a few minutes. Lots of honey like you like.” You quickly shake your head.

To him this is final, the worst you’ll ever get, and in reality that’s probably not the case. You don’t tell him though. His deep eyes stay on you a little too long. “What’s wrong?”

Sometimes you wake up and can’t open your eyes past a blurry sliver, your head tight enough to make your skull feel like it’s caving in. Times where you have to clasp your stomach painfully tight to hold yourself together — stumbling in tears into Yuuta’s room. Like you’ll disintegrate in his arms unless you lock him around yourself. This isn’t as bad, but you still feel bad.

Feverish and cold all at once, achy where your stomach goes up and down. You can’t mention the possibility of having to go back into urgent care without aniiki spiraling, so you keep your mouth shut. “I don’t like green tea,” you guiltily admit instead, and stare up at him when he holds a few knuckles to your head, studying you.

His expression scrutinizes you a little tighter, before he pets over your crown. He presses a soft kiss onto your lips. It’s Rika that loved it, you want to say, but for some reason you can’t make the words come out. He sighs, slightly put out, but then nods. “If you’re feeling better later, maybe you can help Yuuta nii with the curry. Okay?”

“Mhm,” you smile up at him, and you can see how the muscles in his jaw unclench.

His soft hands cup your face intently, staring down at you too intently. It starts sweet, until the feeling of his breath dust over your face and you watch as he flicks his eyes all over you. “You look so much like her. I can tell now that you’re getting older though,” his thumb smoothes over your soft cheek. “We should see if there’s something in Rika’s stuff you can still wear.”

“Won’t be able to fit it anymore, niichan.” Your voice comes out apologetic, though you don’t know why.

“Hm. You might be right.” His look goes more distant before he pulls you closer. Legs tangled, arms loosely looped around you. “You’re still smaller than me though. Luckily.” He takes a deep breath, before nuzzling his nose into your crown to breathe long and deep. His warm hands trail over yours before squeezing. “I love you, you know that? Always will.”

You stare at the wall of mementos past Yuuta’s shoulder. Suffocatingly cram packed. Her pictures. Her music poster. Her pre-teen bottle of perfume you wear only on special occasions. Your hands stop toying with the edge of his shirt to brush instead along his forearm until you meet something that isn’t skin. Yuuta’s quiet, but his breathing is slightly pinched— you don’t mean to.

You glance between you two to the plastic your finger hooks onto. The bracelet she made in the hospital care ward for Yuuta that he still wears despite the fact that the color has long peeled off of the cheap beads. “You loved neesan, right?” Your lashes almost brush when you look back at him, watch him trap his tongue between his teeth for a moment as pink sits on his cheeks. His hand wraps around yours to tangle fingers.

“I… did.”

He swallows. “She made the hospital seem a little less lonely.” The mementos seem to stare at you from across the room as he speaks, and the uncomfortable feeling in your stomach refuses to fade. If anything, it gets more painful. Tighter. “We’re going to be together forever though. And I,” he squeezes your hand, voice fading to barely a whisper, “I love you. Love you so much.”

There's a cold slid over your fingers when he moves. You allow him to slip off the band, gently, and almost as if he wants to give it to you without you noticing, his fingers slide the cursed thing onto your hand instead. His smile is gentle, makes those dark eyes look a little less pressing. “When you’re cleared from going back to the hospital, we can find me a matching one. We still have to get married, right?”

The room feels cold.

“... Okay.”

“Let’s kiss?”

It’s too late to be early when the shared bed gets crowded over on your side. “St- I’m going to sleep, Yuuta nii. Stop.” You don’t open your eyes to the touch, definitely not to the gentle brush of his fingers over your lips when he gets too close. Always too close- it’s suffocating. “I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”

“Don’t be like that.” He sounds happy. He always sounds like that when it has to do with you, and it doesn’t take long for your eyes to flutter open when the thumb instead pushes into your mouth. “If we get married, this will be normal. Don’t pull back.” He pushes onto your tongue to make you hold it in your mouth all heavy and tasting of him, then leans in to push his forehead to yours. Deep, possessive eyes pinning you in place.

“You don’t want to?” It almost sounds mocking. You know you brought this on yourself. You asked to go home early, you asked to invite friends. Maybe this is payback the way big brothers give it. There’s tears that spring up anyway when his other hand slips under your shirt and he squeezes your soft belly. As the spit he wipes on your lips gets kissed away by an impatient sigh. “I’ve wanted to for such a long time. You wouldn’t ask me to wait more.”

“Yuuta nii. We’re siblings, aren’t we?” The ring glitters. Your hand is clenched into the front of his shirt as warm hands grab down your body— hands you love. Hands you trusted.

“Of course we are. That’s why I’m doing this, silly girl.” Hands that push your underwear down your round hips despite you fighting to keep them up. He giggles when you burn with embarrassment, before pressing kisses to your temple. “I love you. I love you, I love you. Who better to kiss you than big brother?” You shake your head, try to push- he doesn’t budge. Just keeps your body in place under his with his weight.

“G-get off of me, Yuuta! Stop being so weird!” You cry, pushing until he grabs your wrist and forces it down beside your head. He’s still smiling though, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like you’re still a child acting out. It’s that which makes you squirm more, and the glare digs into your forehead when he gets on top of you. “Stop~ I don’t want to kiss.”

Instead he laces his fingers with your ring hand, as the other patiently flutters down to rub over your pussy. You don’t want to. You don’t. Yuuta just smiles when he tilts his head to regard you, and squeezes your fingers a little tighter. “Rika-chan asked me to take care of you. Don’t get so mad.”

It’s getting cooler and cooler and cooler the longer he stands. Pressed in the corner of the sterile, greenish blue atmosphere with white sheets draped over your body. He takes a long, deep breath until the nurse finishes up with the checks, taking freshly drawn blood away in a vial. “You’re the guardian?”

The red stands out against your complexion as your restless sleep drifts deeper— he shifts in his seat to lace his hands together. “Her big brother, yes.”

She doesn’t bother to pretend to care when tapping her clipboard, gives a distracted smile. “The doctor will be here within the next hour, okay? Please wait here until then.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Yuuta’s quick not to let the smile quirk up onto his mouth when she’s already walking out before he finishes. As soon as the door falls into lock he gets up from the uncomfortable chair to kneel by your bedside and grasp your hand.

Soft. Small.

He hates to admit that he could spend hours here by your side; but the truth is the truth. He could, and he has. And he will, until it is no longer necessary.

Yuuta kisses your hand with a gentle smile, feeling your heartbeat thump under his lips. You mumble, he swears he can hear his name. “I’m here. Niichan’s here.” He smiles a little more when the soft fingers wrap back around his hand and he watches your expression relax even in your sleep. He can’t help it, the soft thumping against his cheek makes his entire body warm.

You’re so alive, and so close- every cell in his body yearns to be beside you. He kisses the area between your thumb and pointer in an attempt to soothe the feeling of biting down entirely. Instead he clasps your hand with two of his before standing up. “You would have loved Rika.” His mouth tingles. “She would’ve hated you- but you would have loved her. I think she would have been a bit jealous though.”

He dips to press a soft kiss onto your lips, humming softly when your warm breath dusts over his cheeks. “You’re so cute.” A few years ago, you would’ve had visitors waiting for you. “I know you were looking forward to graduation, but I’m still here for you.” He places his hands on both sides of your face to hover over you instead of pulling back, can’t keep himself from it.

“You don’t want to leave your niichan, right?” It’s not your fault that everyone else wants you to move on. He’ll take you just as you are. He has to force himself to pull back before he kisses you again, so you don’t wake just yet. You will. And you’ll cry into his chest about missing your precious graduation, and about being stuck here again, just when you were getting better. He never much wanted you in uni anyway.

From his space sat on the edge of your bed, he can easily see how the blanket squirms. How the motion curls and wiggles until he easily pulls the sheet down your chest, then your stomach.

Two beady eyes stare up at him as he brings his face a little closer. The fly head is still clinging to your stomach, hasn’t moved from where he left it. By now it’s become an accessory every few months. It’s not strong enough to kill you— just barely enough to keep you believing you’re still sick, and that’s all he really needs. You need his care, need him. He resists the urge to pick the thing up at least until he can take you back home.

Instead he nudges it up a little higher, so he can place his palm onto your belly to stroke gentle circles in its place, feeling the heat through the gown. He can feel your heart bounce all the way down your body, it’s so cute. When the little fodder curse crawls onto your chest, lids shooting open as you gasp. “Yuuta nii-” Your eyes are lined red, and as soon as they find him you start bawling.

More than happy to let him hike you up from the bed and into his arms, where you bury your face into his neck. Your hiccups are so cute. It’s easy to kiss them quiet when you don’t have enough breath to ask him to stop. He’s sure this time he could slip his tongue into your mouth and you wouldn’t say a thing.

#jjk smut #jjk x reader #okkotsu yuuta #yuuta x reader #jjk yuuta #yuuta smut #tw.pseudocest #tw.grooming #tw.noncon #tw.yandere #tw.dark content #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu yuuta #🍯.honeypot

331 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 days

Text

Winter's King 23

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

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

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

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: I sprained my ankle.

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

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

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The king shifts you off of him, lifting you with him as he stands. The tension is rigid in his grip. He steadies your bodies and helps you over the edge of the tub. Another pounding sounds at the door and his name arises again.

King Geralt follows, splashing water on the floor in his expediency. He takes a bath sheet from the wardrobe and wraps it around you, not saying a word. Your heart races as you let him move you. You’re paralysed with the embarrassment of that moment. You’re about to be caught out in a perilous position.

He urges you towards the bed and points you onto it. You hug the sheet around you and sit near the pillows. He pulls shut the canopy around you, blocking out the room behind the drapings. You sink down, horrified. He’s hiding you. As thankful as you are for his discretion it only reminds you of your own guilt.

He coughs and his feet slap around. You hear another rustle of linen and your ears prick as he goes to the door. He inches it open with a creak, “Vesemir,” he greets flatly.

“Ah, the king lives,” the gritty voice is more familiar without the barrier of the wood, “ah, and look at him, in his respite, enjoying the hot waters as his wife runs amok in my castle.”

“Wife?” Geralt repeats grimly, “what is your meaning?”

“Do you mean to keep my out in the corridors of my own home?” The man demands and slaps the door. “Boy--”

“Eh,” the king grunts, “mind yourself.”

“Don’t play proper with me,” the man scoffs and the door groans, letting him in. You can see shadows through the small slot between the curtains. You shy away, hoping whoever it is won’t look back.

“Vesemir,” the king repeats, confirming the identity, “what is my wife about?”

“Won’t you come see?” The man challenges, “her and her soldiers are raiding my cellar. I allowed one bottle and now I will be drunk dry. I serve the kingdom but I did not swear myself to spoiled summer welps.”

“Mm,” the king growls as he moves beyond your sight, not that you can see very much through the narrow space. “I’ll tend to her--”

“Certainly, you will or I will march her out with my ax.”

“You needn’t go so far,” the king girds with a sigh as you hear the stiffness of leather.

“When you marched south, I didn’t think it would soften you,” Vesemir rebukes, “you hide in a tower, soaking in steam.”

“It has been a long road. We won’t be long here and I thought to wash,” King Geralt sneers defensively. “Even bears like you need a good scrubbing. You more than any, I think.”

Silence. Tense and roiling. You crawl forward to get a better view of the room. You put your eye to the slat between the curtains and nearly squeak as the older man booms with laughter and claps the younger’s bare shoulder.

“Aye, I probably do smell like the caves,” he rumbles. “And you always did smell like a horse, Geralt.”

The king mutters again as he pulls a tunic over his head, the wet tails of his hair leaving speckles of water across the wool. You blink as the other man shifts and you see his profile clear. You know the man. It is the cook. Rather, not a cook at all but Vesemir, the lord of the castle. You're caught in surprise, staring through at him.

As if drawn by your gaze, he glances over and you quickly retreat from the curtain, hoping you were not spotted. His tongue makes a noise against the roof of his mouth and he huffs. His sole scuffs as the king’s laces whip against his boots.

“Geralt,” Vesemir intones with disappointment.

Silence and another heavy breath. You don’t know from which man. The chair scrapes as the king stands.

“It isn’t to mind,” King Geralt insists, “I will fetch my queen and put her back in her chamber.”

Vesemir growls, “I do wonder why she might act so, with such a loving husband.”

“Enough. It isn’t your concern.”

“Not as yet, but the king’s business is everyone’s concern. Especially of those who marched on his behalf for a summer’s kingdom and a summer’s queen.”

“You did not march,” the king rebuffs.

“Eh, do not,” Vesemir warns, “I do not lecture, I warn you. You are a king now, mm, not a boy playing at tourney knight.”

“I am aware,” King Geralt snips, “tell me what you are aware of, hiding away in your vultures’ pit. These winter lords wanted home to their families, so I made it so. I agreed to marry that... traitor’s daughter and what have I got for it but a headache? You need not make my skull pound any harder, Vesemir.”

“Oh yes, your father was no fan of politics either. Nor did he play them well. Perhaps you might take another lesson after him,” Vesemir rebukes, “that turncloak’s daughter will not be any more amenable should she learn of her husband’s follies.”

“She cannot see past her own nose,” Geralt straps his sword over his back.

“You are hard to miss,” Vesemir insists.

“Let us go to the cellar, I tire of your reproach.”

“Ever obstinate, my liege,” the lords tuts and shakes his head, turning for the door.

You angle to watch them go, the door shutting heavily in their stead. You let out a breath and hug your legs to your chest. You look up at the canopy and the looming bed frame. And so it begins, you sit, trapped by the king’s deceit.

⚔️

After some time, you dare to step beyond the canopy. You dress and sit at the table; the chamber growing still as the water cools and stagnates. The fire crackles to embers but you’re too fraught to think to feed it. You stare at the door. The longer you wait, the more your doubt threatens to consume you.

There is no dial or no sunlight to gauge how long but it is longer than you anticipate. You grow restless and rise, pacing as you twist your palms against each other. Is it the queen the keeps the king? Or something more dire?

When at last you hear movement on the stairs, you can’t help but hide against the wall. The footsteps hammer up and the door bursts open from the other side. At first, you fear the worst. Perhaps your mind has made it all a bit too extravagant but in a manner, you long for it to end, one way or the other.

King Geralt storms in like a gust of wind and snow. The wood snaps against stone as he blusters across the floor and kicks a chair. It cracks against the table and the armrest splinters. You curl your fingers into your apron and sway.

The king grabs the edge of the table and overturns it, sending the books and plates atop it to the floor. He circles like a rabid wolf, stomping and seething, growling as his anger simmers up his throat. He stops as if struck and goes to the bed, tearing back the canopy. His chest puffs as his brow furrows.

“Treasure...” he breathes.

You shudder, “your highness.”

He turns and sees you, his shoulders easing. He closes his eyes and his jaw locks. He pushes his hands over his hair as he calms himself. He opens his eyes against and drops his arms.

“Did I frighten you? I didn’t mean to,” he slowly comes closer, “you know I could never harm you.”

“Yes, your highness, I only meant to be out of the way,” you utter. “Something is amiss?”

“Mmm,” he hums through his nose, “that is a way to say it.” He takes your hands in his, his thumbs rubbing your knuckles, “my wife has not been a very gracious guest. Lord Vesemir’s hospitality quickly wanes. The storm won’t be much longer before we can depart...” he doesn’t look happy for the fact, “and we would be best to do so quickly.”

“Is that not good? Aren’t you happy to go home?” You ask.

His expression softens, “little maid, of course. I cannot wait to show you it all but... I hoped we might have some more time before that. The road is not easy.” He exhales and raises your hands, kissing each, “I must let you go for now. I have acted hastily and there are still matters to attend to. The war I started still roils in the air.” He shakes his head, “I have foes to harry as yet.”

You blink, “what do you mean?”

“Never you worry,” he lowers your hands, “I’ve only one mission for you, little maid.”

“Yes, your highness.”

“You will return to the queen’s service, yes? You will tend to her as you always have but you will watch and you will listen. Every lord, every lady, ever single vermin that keeps her company, I want to know of,” he sneers.

“Your highness? Why--”

“Do not ask why. I require it, that is all you need to know. For our safety, you must do this,” he clings to you, “treasure, I know you are a loyal creature, it is what first drew me to you, but that woman you serve wouldn’t know loyalty if it crept up her skirts.” He lets you go hesitantly, “she is still a traitor’s daughter.”

Your lip trembles and you quickly still it. He is asking you to play spy. On Jazlene. On your queen. His very own wife. But why? She is foolish, she is a drunkard, but she is harmless.

“You swore yourself to your duty, didn’t you?” He arches a brow. “The king comes above all. Regardless of house, of master, you serve me.”

“I will serve as I swore,” you grit out, injured by his tone.

That same day he was gentle and now he is steely and demanding. He toys with you. He only means to use you in whatever way the moment calls for. It is not grand revelation but no less painful.

“Do not be sombre, treasure, in due time,” he rasps. He backs away and puts his back to you, “go, before I let my heart get the best of me. Should you stay longer, I might never let you leave.”

“Your highness,” you bow and walk to the door.

“The knight awaits you. He will take you to the queen.”

“Thank you,” you stand in the doorway.

“Wait,” he calls to you and follows after. You turn to find him with cloak in hand, “you will need this.”

You look down at the cloak. You take it without protest. Even if it is tainted, he isn’t wrong. You will face the cold soon enough and you wouldn’t fare long in your wool and linen. You thank him and he sees you through the open door, closing it as you descend.

As you come to the bottom, you find a shadow awaiting you. It isn’t Bryce. The figure is broader and his white hair shines in the torch light. You step off the bottom step and bend your neck.

“My lord,” you greet the castle lord.

“Maid,” he returns dully, “so it is the little dove that coos as the king.”

You keep your head down, turning it away in shame as you purse your lips. It is your first lesson in judgment but not an easy one.

“I didn’t expect you so much as you didn’t expect me. Sir Bryce has allowed me your time but he warned me he would be back,” he explains. “I only wanted the measure of the king’s fancy. I’ve known him a very long time so it is curious to me that he has put himself in such a... circumstance.”

“My lord,” you whisper, throat crackling.

“Hmmm,” he gives a thoughtful hum. You languish in his silence as he looms in the flicker of lanterns. He pushes away from the wall and steps closer. “You are not offended, but guilty. There is no presumption in you, dove. You do not take insult from what I say, you only take on the onus of the king’s desire.”

He leans in and brings his hand under your chin, forcing your head up. He looks at you, examining you like some riddle. His wrinkles deepen as the shadows make caverns of his eye sockets.

“I see it clear,” he remarks as he pulls his hand away. “I remember the dove who treated cook no lesser than lord,” he stands straight and crosses his arms, “I see no difference between her and you. Yes, I was not mistaken before, but I believe our king is. He does not know you though he believes he does.”

“My lord, I serve the king.”

“You serve your queen,” he counters, “you are of the summer, just like her. So how do you choose?”

You stare at him and your eyes sting. Can you choose?

“It doesn’t matter which one, either would clip your wings,” he lets out a gray breath. “Dove, I will keep your peace. I hold no malice for you, no, I pity you.” He puts his hand to his chest, “while you are under my roof, you will have whatever you need. I will have that soldier find you a proper chamber. For yourself, and should you want, you will have the pick of my pantry. What little delights you might have, I would enjoy them while you can.”

“Thank you, my Lord, but that is very much for a maid.”

He touches your cap, his fingers lingering on the linen, “summer dove... I told you these winds were too cold for you.”

“I must go to the queen,” you plead.

“Yes, go,” he backs away, “I will send your soldier to you.” His lips go crooked as his eyes narrow thoughtfully, “I’ve known Sir Bryce a very long time. That man alone is the best army you could have at your back.”

“He is kind, sir,” you say.

“Is he now?” Lord Vesemir scoffs, “well, maybe one day, I might remember him as such. Do not let me keep you from your duty.”

He stays by the wall and you step around him. You don’t look back as you march forward, the cryptic conversation follows you through the corridors. There was something unsaid in his voice, as if he knew something you don’t. One might take it as him making a joke of you, but you don’t see that man laughing over such grave matters.

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #the witcher #winter's king #medieval au

224 notes · View notes