#I’m jealous of all them who get to do that | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

elaci · 15 hours

Text

Art brings Patrick along to celebrate your entry winning! He also shows off your side-project of collecting intimates, Patrick wants in.

cw; threesomesss! m-recieving oral, spitroasting, consensual voyeurism, more talk of tennis and a man who is not named mary...

Art Donaldson x Patrick Zweig x fem!reader | The Rule of Thirds masterlist | talk to me!

“You aren’t even playing tennis in it.”

Patrick Zweig, who really does hate formal attire, tilts his head at the print framed in front of him. The glass of sparkling in his hand doesn’t do much to unlock his creative interpretation. To him, it’s a photo of his best friend smiling like a dork with a racket in hand.

Art jabs him in the ribs. “It’s the afterglow,” he parrots, a weird knowing smile pulling at his lips. “You’re just jealous that I won.”

Patrick snorts and leans into Art. “You didn’t. She did.”

The two of them glance around the venue, a makeshift gallery to display the submissions for the face of sport competition . People crowd the place, pointing at prints and talking between themselves about angles and lighting and composition and everything under the sun that isn’t sport. All of the pictures are the same, though: a close up of a sports player as they train. Their face sweaty and angry as they hit a ball or cross a finish line or do a fucking pirouette.

The boys step out of the way to let an older married couple in front of them look at the winning photo. The husband looks puzzled, glancing from the first-day-of-school-esque photo of Art to a photo of a swimmer diving into the water.

“This is the winner?” the husband asks his wife.

The wife, who is sneaking a few pictures on her phone, laughs and says, “Jeff, honey, you just don’t understand art.”

Patrick snorts at that and looks at his Art, one he also doesn’t fully understand. Art rolls his eyes and steps away, motioning for Patrick to follow. The two fall in step with each other, voices low as they walk through the gallery.

“So,” Patrick dips his head down a little as he speaks, a dutiful whisper. “Are you two dating or what? Have you fucked her yet?”

Art stops abruptly, his shoes squeak against the linoleum flooring, karma for wearing sneakers to an event where champagne is served and people say things like ‘what a peculiar angle’. He looks at Patrick with something in his eyes, and the brunette has to take a moment to try and decode his best friend's silent story.

“Ohh,” he grins after a moment. “She fucked you.”

Art clicks his teeth, he wants to object but he ultimately can’t. “She takes photos.”

“What?”

“Polaroids.”

“Of you fucking?”

“Yes, Patrick, not so loud.”

Patrick’s grin is glued to his face. It’s less amused and moreso smug now, maybe a little excited. There's a moment shared between the two before Patrick chimes in again, a tinge of worry lacing his tone. "And you know she's not going to send them anywhere?"

Art shakes his head. "She lets me keep them."

"Holy shit," Patrick laughs, "I have to see these."

Art scoffs and pulls Patrick along. They continue walking through the exhibition halls, occasionally stopping to look at different prints on display but quickly growing bored of the monotony of each shot. Patrick starts to realise, after the sixth shot of a tennis player hitting a ball, that you were right in catching something different. The pair turn a corner and find themselves in a secluded hall of past entries that no one cares to gawk over a second time; Patrick takes his chance and grabs Art by the arm.

"Come on," his voice is low, and he glances through the empty hallway to make sure he hadn't missed someone standing within earshot. “Let me see.”

There’s a pause, and then Art shakes his head. “No way, my eyes only.”

Patrick grins, “what’s so bad about them? She gets you to dress up in a maid's dress and serve her on your knees?”

Patrick entertains the thought for a moment, and then sees the danger in doing so and shakes his head. “I’m joking, Art. If you don’t want me to see, don’t show me.”

Another pause, Patrick knows Art like he knows himself, even more so maybe. Art wants to share, he wants to gloat about the endeavours he’s been having behind a closed door: he's a man for attention just like Patrick is, it’s what makes them such a good team, everyone’s eyes are always on them. They hold eye contact for what feels like a moment too long, and Art finally lets his lips flip into a grin.

“And how would Tashi feel about me showing you these?”

Patrick shrugs. “You know Tashi, she’s not the jealous type,” he puts on a high pitched voice, despite Tashi having the complete opposite, and points a finger in the air to quote her. “I dont care what you do or who you fuck, Patrick, as long as you play a good fucking game of tennis afterwards.”

Monogamy, not a given in the world of competition, unsurprisingly. Art stands still, hands by his side as he squints his eyes at Patrick. He’s always been able to call bullshit on him, and Art must trust his intuition on this one because he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. He pulls two polaroids out of the back slot and pockets one of them, not comfortable with sharing such an intimate photo of yourself with express permission. The other one, the one you had taken your first time together, gets slipped into Patricks awaiting palm.

And he has no telling face as he looks at it, studies it. In the photo, Art Donaldson, his best friend since twelve, is laying on his back, expression lost in a mixture of bliss and overwhelming desire. Sweat sticks to his skin, sticks his hair to his forehead. His face is blushed red and his eyes are blown wide open, pupils expanded as if he were looking at God herself; perhaps he was. His mouth is parted lightly, lips glistening with what could be spit or... and Patrick is hard.

“Introduce me,” Patrick deadpans. “I’ll never ask you for anything ever again. I’ll give you so much money. I’ll quit tennis.”

Art grins. “You are a fucking liar.”

“Yeah, one with taste and a semi.”

Art hits Patrick in the arm, but ultimately folds. “Fine, but only because she wants to meet you.”

“I could suck your dick right now.” Patrick takes another hit to the arm, this one harder than the last. He moves to rub the spot where pain still lingers, but stops in his movements when a thought crosses his mind. “So you’ve told her about me, huh?”

Art rolls his eyes and plucks the polaroid from Patricks hand. He looks at the picture for a moment.

“Oh he won't shut up about you," a voice sounds from behind the pair. Both boys jump at the sudden presence and spin to face you, smiling laudingly at the pair- a gold medal with a camera engraved into the front hangs from your neck. Your gaze flits between them, and Patrick is suddenly struck by all the times he’d seen you around before. Though he's not often on campus, only when his schedule opens and visits are worth making, he's turned his head as you've walked past before, he knows it.

Art clears his throat and turns to face you properly, placing the hand with the polaroid behind his back. "This is Patrick," he gestures at Patrick while maintaining eye contact with you. You nod, and then look towards the brunette. Your name falls on attentive ears, Patrick rolls it on his tongue for good measure and decides he likes the taste of it. He introduces himself in turn with an extended hand to shake and his signature smile.

"It's good to meet you," you hum as you shake his hand, though your head nods to Art's hidden hand. "I do autograph my originals, if you want."

Art's face falls slightly, caught in the act. Patrick smiles and nods, to which Art mutters an embarrassed apology. Your eyes soften, and the corners of your mouth tug upwards in response. You hold your hand out, and Art sheepishly places the polaroid in your hand. You turn the polaroid around and examine it for a few moments before plucking a permanent marker from your pocket and writing something on the back of it. You waft it through the air a few times to allow for the ink to dry, and then grin at Art as you hand the polaroid instead to Patrick.

Patrick takes it with a dumbfounded half-smile, his eyes darting from you to Art and then back to you and down to the writing you've left behind--- THE ART OF MAKING LOVE, it reads, and Patrick snorts at the pun. Your smile widens slightly.

“Very nice.” Patrick comments softly, holding the polaroid between his fingertips and glancing down to it pointedly.

"I know," you reply simply. "Thank you for coming, by the way, both of you. I would have skipped it myself if I didn't win."

Art chuckles. "It was our pleasure, this place is nice."

You laugh in response and Patrick thinks he's heard heaven's bells. "Some lady asked if I'd read the part about the entry having to be sports-related."

Patrick pushes in before Art can speak. "Ah, don't listen to them," he takes a step forward and glances down to the polaroid still between his fingers, you don’t know if he’s talking about the photo he’s holding, or the winning entry. "I think you really captured the... afterglow."

If Art could roll his eyes completely into the back of his head he would, he can't hold his laughter in at Patricks attempt to sound like he knows the first thing about photography, and your laughter sings out too, picking up on the parroting of your own words to Art. The sound echoes across the empty hallway, bouncing off the walls and filling the space like music.

"Patrick doesn't know what he's talking about," Art runs a hand through his own hair, eyes settling on you in a dorky grin you've grown to adore.

"I'm better in front of the camera than behind it," Patrick offers.

Silence meets his words as you look between the boys, committing both of their features to memory. You imagine, only for a moment, getting them both in front of your lens. The imagined sight is enough to press an offer to your lips. Patrick and Art stand in silence, staring at you as you watch them.

"I already got my medal" you toy with the award around your neck. You tilt your head to the side, "wanna get out of here?"

"Yes," said in eager unison by the best friends, fire and ice.

You smirk, turn on your heels and lead the way down the hall. Patrick and Art fall in step behind you, Patrick still holding your polaroid between his fingers-- Art plucks it from him in a quick movement and pockets it. Patrick, in childish turn, shoves Art against the corridor wall. He hits a framed photo of an elderly woman with a feeding tube in her nose, titled 'the woes of age', and it crashes to the floor with a loud clatter. The frame's glass shatters across the floor, and you whip your head around to find Patrick and Art both staring wide-eyed back at you.

"What was that?" A voice from the main gallery calls out, thudding footsteps follow.

And you stifle a laugh, looking down at the broken frame of a probably now-dead elderly woman's portrait, then up to your two accomplices. Art and Patrick look between each other, a silent agreement between them. All of a sudden, they're sprinting past you, and both grabbing a hand of yours to pull you down the corridor.

Your shrieks of laughter fill the space between you. You run faster than you've ever ran before, your heart pounding in your chest and blood rushing through your veins; it's exhilarating, it's terrifying, you're alive.

SIX YEARS LATER

A burly old man with tattoos from head to toe stands behind the counter at MARY'S PAWN SHOP— YOUR TRADE, YOUR TREASURES. Patrick Zweig walks in with two tennis bags slumped over his shoulders, looks at the balding man with ‘leisure’ tattooed under his eye and smiles, “I’ll take it you aren’t Mary.”

"No," says the man of few words.

Patrick raises his eyebrows and exhales, his social battery already malfunctioning. He walks to the counter and sets each tennis bag down atop it with a padded thud. "There's uh, there's rackets, wristbands, a pair of shoes- I think, a few balls. All in good condition, nothing cheap, nothing dirty..."

The man nods, still silent, and begins looking through the tennis bags. He pulls a racket out to check it for wear and tear, and then another, glossing his eyes over and finding no damage. He checks the shoes for dirt and scratches, the balls for wear, and once he's happy with the quality of the first bag's contents, he moves onto the second. He unzips the side pocket with a short tug to reveal something other than tennis equipment— a polaroid.

It only takes a glance at the photo from the stocky man before he's slamming it face down on the counter. "Fucking Christ, kid. Check your shit before you pawn it off."

Patrick looks puzzled, "what?" he slides the polaroid towards himself and flips it up to look at it— his lips twitch. "Oh."

"Yeah 'oh'," the man scoffs in reply.

Patrick stares down at a photo he hasn't seen in years, and while red tinges his face as he stands in Mary's Pawn Shop, it's nothing compared to his flushed red look of desperation in the polaroid. There he sits, with Art Donaldson sitting behind him pressing wet kisses to his neck, hands splayed over Patrick’s bare chest. His legs are spread, the photo is taken from between them— at the bottom of the frame his cock sits rock hard and at rapt attention, your manicured fingers wrapped around his length: he can even see the glisten of precum beading at his tip.

"Jesus," Patrick exhales shakily, quickly pocketing the polaroid and only barely managing eye contact with the clerk. "That's, uh..."

"I don't care," he snaps a finger to the store's entrance. "Out."

"Wait," Patrick scrambles to show him that the rest of the bag is indeed only full of tennis gear. "Seriously, please, I need the money," his tone softens, but is still pleading. "Look, I'm a tennis player, Patrick Zweig, if you plaster my name on the sale I'm sure you'll get more sales. Can you just—"

"I just got a faceful of your cock, Patrick Zweig," the old man barks. "Get the fuck out."

Patrick lets out an exasperated sigh and zips up his tennis bags, slinging one strap across his shoulder and taking the other by the handle. He turns and walks gingerly out of the store, a 'please come again soon!' sign hangs awkwardly from the door he walks through, and rattles when he slams it shut behind him.

The trek to his car is an embarrassing one, the old tattooed man's eyes still burning into him as he unlocks the trunk and throws his tennis bags in. The moment he's situated in the driver's seat, he's turning out of the street and praying silently to god that he gets hit by lightning or something to that extent. He's been doing that a lot lately.

Once he's reached his apartment, Patrick's mind is reeling, and every thought has to do with you. He leaves his stuff behind in the car, mind too occupied to care about bringing them in.

His front door creaks when he pushes it open and slams it shut behind him, he's walking straight to his laptop, which sits at the counter because he hasn't had the time nor funds to buy a table, and opens up the screen. Your name is tapped into the search browser in seconds, his index finger clicks the enter button and Patrick Zweig holds his breath as the search results load. There's a funny feeling in his chest, a deep sense of anticipation that makes him feel almost giddy.

The page loads a display of your photography but no display of you. Patrick scrolls further down, scanning through articles about your photographs and a few links to reviews of your work. Nothing. His fingertips drum against the keyboard as he tries another search— your personal website.

There you are. A photo of you behind a camera headlines the page, and below are examples of your work. They're mostly photos of people, some of them are tame and shot against the sun in fields canvased with colour, others are sultry black-and-white boudoir style photos, though each subject has the same look on their face that you've been chasing since the day he met you. Patrick takes the polaroid from his pocket and sits it against the screen, as if on display with the rest of your shots, and he can't help but smile. It's very you.

BOOK A SHOOT! — GET IN CONTACT is written in bold towards the bottom of the page next to an email and a phone number.

Patrick Zweig knows he isn't the best person to grace this earth. He knows he has a habit of placing himself in the arms of people that would be better off without bearing his weight. He knows his voice can be a jarring one— so he skips past your number and starts typing an email instead. Because he’s trying to be thoughtful, you can delete an email, but also because he’s a few minutes away from stroking his cock to that polaroid of yours until his wrist hurts and he’s cumming dry and you’d certainly hear the building desperation in his voice.

Your email goes in first, and then a subject line— he flips the polaroid over and smiles at the smudged writing on the back, and then gets to typing:

‘Zweig, your plus one.’

SIX YEARS EARLIER

“So what am I here?” Patrick takes a drag of his cigarette, leans back against the tree he sits under and blows his smoke into the air. “A third wheel?”

You laugh, so does Art, who is sitting across from him on the grass, beside you with an arm around your shoulder. He has a cigarette in hand that he offers you every now and then, but you’re busy feeding new instant film into your polaroid. Though your head is down as you work, you reply with a sweetness to your tone nonetheless.

“No,” you laugh. “More like a plus one.”

Patrick raises his eyebrows and looks from you to Art, something in his eyes that only his best friend could read. Art shrugs, a playful smile pulling at his lips as he mouths 'told you.' Before Patrick can ask what exactly what you mean by that, he sees you lift the polaroid in front of your face and snap a picture, the flash sending Patricks eyes wide in the otherwise dim night. When you lower the camera from your nose he finds you grinning at him like you've just won the lottery, and he laughs low in his throat.

The polaroid prints from the camera, and you waft it in the air a little to let it develop before looking down at it. "You looked good," you hum, and give Patrick the opportunity to lean forward and take a look for himself. He does so immediately, his elbows resting on his knees as he leans forward and angles his head. He sees himself, cigarette in hand and smoke blowing softly from his lips as he sits.

He takes another toke of his cigarette and then taps it out into the ashtray beside him. He nods at you, catches your gaze, "do you play tennis?"

You laugh, a genuine laugh that rings in Patricks ears. Art laughs too, and nudges you with his arm. "She's a natural."

Patrick can tell Art is lying, because he can always tell. A grin pulls at his lips as you shake your head and cover your face with your hands for dramatic effect and dissolve into your laughter once more. Art nudges you again, and you push his arm away gently, but there's no malice in your movements, "I'm about half as useful with a racket as I would be if I was blind. I'll leave the big leagues to you two... you're playing professionally right?"

Patrick nods, and spends a fair few minutes going into depth about the world of pro tennis. You listen tentatively, nodding along to his words and asking questions when you aren't sure of something. Art chimes in too, at some point, and the conversation shifts from pro tennis to all types of stories from the boys' years of playing together. It all feels so familiar, and yet so foreign. Patrick can't remember the last time he's talked about tennis with someone that isn't aching to get pointers from him, or lecture him on how to improve. You just listen, and you throw in your own stories of childhood sports leagues and extracurriculars here and there, and Patricks not quite sure how but by the time the conversation wraps up, the three of you are sitting an awful lot closer than you were when you'd first found the secluded spot on campus.

"How long are you visiting for?" You tilt your head as you look at Patrick- your legs are draped over Art's lap, though you have a hand on his knee.

"A few more days," Patrick nods, looking from you to Art who has a sly grin plastered on his face, "what?"

Art shrugs nonchalantly, leaning slightly forward as he rubs a hand over your legs. “Patrick is staying in my dorm,” he looks to you, something knowing in his eyes. “I forgot to tell him I wouldn’t be there tonight.”

Patrick looks between you and Art.

“Oh but your doors locked,” you sound genuinely concerned as you turn to Patrick and ask, “do you have a spare key?”

Arts door isn’t locked— he always forgets to lock it. Even at boarding school Patrick would chide his inability to remember to lock their room up when they left, they’d always fall victim to someone coming in to steal a racket or swap out their pillows for the less comfortable ones that would circulate the dorm.

“I don’t have a spare key,” Patrick lets your hand crawl a little further over his thigh. A glance to Art offers him an equally hungry look, a heat, a taste for more than that night in the hotel with…

Should he tell you about Tashi? He knows she’s unbothered by his endeavours as long as his performance doesn’t slip for it, but some draw a line at sharing. He looks between you and Art, takes in the burning from the both of you and almost laughs, something tells him sharing isn't off the cards for you.

“You said earlier that you’re better in front of the camera than behind it,” your voice is soft, sultry, it sends a twang of something needy through Patricks spine. “You wanna take some pictures, Zweig?”

It’s all a rush, from his acceptance to the trip to your dorm room, a haze of hushed laughter and lingering touches he can’t tell who from. He wants to put on a face for you, woo you like he does every other girl he’s slept with. But with Art it’s easy, they're best friends… soulmates. They’ve kissed before, they've seen the most intimate parts of each other— in a way, Art's presence settles his nerves with you.

The second your dorm room door clicks shut, Art’s lips are against Patrick's and he’s guiding him to the edge of your bed in a mess of sloppy implacable kisses, his slender hands run through Patrick's curls, tug at the base of his scalp in a newfound dominance Patrick was unsure Art had in him. This is the second time they've made out, if you don't count the time when they were thirteen and practised on each other for their first girlfriends… which neither of them will admit ever happened.

The back of Patrick's legs hit the edge of your bed and at the same time, Art's tongue slips dutifully into his mouth and slides over the expanse of his teeth. He tastes like cigarettes and chapstick, which Patrick assumes is yours because it tastes like cherries and everything else narcotic, in this sense he kisses you also. There's a heat licking at the pit of his stomach and it spreads like wildfire through his chest and down his arms. Tugging at the hem of Arts shirt, he gets his point across and is able to lift it and run his fingertips over his abdomen as Art removes it completely. Patrick follows suit shortly after, grabbing his own shirt by the collar and lifting it over his head: it's tossed to the side despite its price. His jeans soon follow.

For a moment, it's just the two of them, all clothes bar their boxers discarded to the floor and hands exploring bare skin. The warmth of Art's fingers digging into his chest, his ribs, his hips, the hard planes of his body, their bodies pressed together as if to become one. Their lips connect again, hungrily, their teeth knocking together with every brush of tongues. Patrick takes Art's lower lip between his teeth and bites hard enough to elicit a choked groan from the back of Art's throat.

They part, and are given only half a moment to mourn the loss of each other's touch before their kiss-swollen lips upturn into grins, and a gentle laughter is shared between them. Art's smile is wide, and he turns his head from Patrick to you, sitting at your desk writing on the back of the polaroid you had taken outside.

"Busy over there?" Art teases, smiling as you turn to look at them.

"Just letting you have your moment," you hum complaisantly, then lift your camera up to take a quick photo of the pair, hot and flushed and still panting slightly, "just let me know when you two feel like being productive with yourselves…"

Your tone trails off, and then you're standing quickly, grabbing your camera as you saunter over to the boys, who part from each other to glue their eyes onto you. You survey the scene, their tousled hair and matching vibrant pink cheeks. Patrick’s boxers are a light blue, Art’s are black, and you like the contrast of colour but decide they should exit the scene completely.

You run a nail down Art’s chest, watching as his shoulders roll back as you flick over one of his nipples and continue down to the waistband of his boxers. You pull the elastic towards you, and then let it snap back against his skin. He hisses at the contact, plasters a dramatic frown across his lips as you smile in turn and nod to the bed, though not before tugging down at his boxers just enough to expose the trail of light brown hair leading to his hardened cock— a suggestion if nothing else: take them off.

Art obliges, sparing only a glance to Patrick before tugging his boxers down and kicking them to the side. You steal a good look at his cock, licking your lips at the sight of his growing hard-on. He catches your gaze and gives you a sly smile before climbing onto your bed and sitting back.

You’re quick to guide Patrick into position as well, taking him by the wrist and giving him a pointed look when he uses his free hand to caress the curve of your ass. He’s a lot more assertive than Art, lets his hands roam when Arts would stay clasped behind his back. You like it, you like the contrast, and you like the thought of having Art take control of his ministries for once.

You pull Patrick to stand in front of where Art sits and then, with a cheeky lopsided smile, you push him backwards and watch as he falls to sit just in front of where Art is settled. You take a step back and watch as Art moves forward, hand on Patrick’s shoulder, and sets his gaze on you.

“Direct away,” he rests his chin on Patrick’s shoulder, and the pair watch as you ready your camera.

“You’re good like this, actually,” you hum, looking between the boys. Rather than snap a photo, though, you reach back out and lift Patrick’s chin up to offer him your gaze. Your fingers trace the expanse of his jaw, up to his cheek before returning to his cocky smile. You slip two fingers into his mouth, his lips closing around them without guidance nor hesitation. His tongue lays flat against your digits as he sucks, hollowing out his cheeks, eyes boring into yours.

When you pull your fingers from his mouth his arrogant smile returns ten-fold. You’re pressing your lips against his in only a second, rolling your tongue into his mouth in an attempt to shut him up despite not a word falling from his lips. He brings a hand up to cup the side of your face, an attempt at dominance despite quite literally being the one stretching his back to keep his lips against yours.

His hand travels to the nape of your neck, tugging you forward until you practically fall into him, your legs giving way as you drop to your knees against the cold hardwood floors. You find purchase by splaying your fingers over his thick thighs, his lips still locked with yours in a frenzy of tongues and teeth and shared oxygen. It's an unspoken battle for the upper hand, something you never had to wager with Art, who's happy to melt under your touch until the sun rises. You take your turn by slipping one hand past the waistband of his baby blue boxers and palming his rock hard erection; a harsh intake of breath from Patrick allows you to pull your lips from his and gaze up at him with the most innocent expression you could muster.

"Can I suck your dick now or are you going to keep me waiting? I'm kinda starving."

A breathless chuckle escapes your lips as Patrick stares at you with heated eyes and opens his mouth to reply but no sound comes out. The words die on the tip of his tongue and he closes it quickly before swallowing audibly and looking between you and Art, who has pulled himself up just enough to get a look at you from over his best friends shoulder. When Patrick's eyes lock onto yours again, his grin widens even further and he leans back against Art's chest, looking down at you through lidded eyes and nodding eagerly.

You waste no time on lingering touches and feather-light strokes. Your free hand is tugging Patrick's boxers down, with his help as he lifts his hips to allow you to do so, and with your other one you're squeezing his shaft, moving your hand up and down in deliberate strokes that send his mind into overdrive. Once he's biting his own lip, you wrap your around his glistening tip and swirl your tongue around the head of his cock before sucking him deeply into your mouth.

A gasp from Patrick, quickly muffled by the turn of his head and Art stretching his neck to meet his best friend in a ravenous kiss. You flatten your tongue against Patrick's length, take a moment to hum contently and listen to his hitching breath at the vibrations you offer him, and then start bobbing your head rhythmically. You cup his balls with one hand, offer him gentle squeezes in tandem with the movement of your tongue, and rub grounding circles into his thigh with your other hand. Your cheeks hollowed out, you suck Patrick Zweig's pulsing cock until he deems himself desperate enough to start bucking his hips upward into your mouth. You know he'd hold your head in place and throat-fuck you until you'd lose your voice if he had you alone, but Art's doing well in distracting him with his tongue, his lips and his hands.

It's when Patrick breaks the kiss to look down at you, eyes glossed with a yearning lust, that you know he's close. Breathing laboured, fingers digging into the edge of your mattress, hips snapping upwards for any chance at fucking deeper into your throat. His desperation only doubles when Art starts nibbling at his ear, then kissing down the stretch of his neck, hands feeling up his chest.

You know he’s close, walking on the fence of a ruined orgasm and a zenith climax that would taste better than it feels, though you place your hunger aside to do what you do best— take the shot. You pull your lips from Patrick’s cock with a pop, and replace your mouth with your right hand, wrapping your fingers around his length and stroking him just enough to keep him on that edge.

You reach over his trembling thighs, grab your camera and line up the shot. Art’s mess of blonde hair is a contrast to Patrick’s darkened look as he works bruises into his neck, fingers splayed over his chest. Patricks face, the look of looming bliss melted over his features, and the tension in his corded muscles as he opens his mouth to beg for sweet release. You make sure his pulsing cock is in frame, too, held in reverence by your own hand. The flash momentarily brightens the room, illuminates the scene at hand but only for a second before the Polaroid prints your photo and you pluck it with the hand that had held Patrick's cock on the edge of orgasm.

He whines as you smile up at him, nearly moving to stroke himself to completion but stopping in favour of starting an argument.

"What the fuck?" He has to swallow twice to keep his drool from spilling out of his mouth. "That's unfair, fucking-"

You press a kiss to Patrick's knee and then stand, stepping back once and placing your finger against your lips in a gesture of silence.

He watches, his brows furrowed as you turn on your heel and wander back to your desk. You don't bother to look over your shoulder as you pick up a permanent marker and start writing on the back of your developing Polaroid.

'ZWEIG, OUR PLUS O—'

A pair of arms around your torso pull you backwards, and you smudge the last few letters with your thumb as the man behind you pulls it from your grasp and smacks it face-down against your desk. You can feel his erection pressing against your clothed ass, his sweaty chest against your back and his hot breath against your ear as he speaks, low and sinful.

"I don't know if you've noticed," Patrick Zweig bites. "But I don't get off on being used like a toy. I'm not Art."

You turn your head in the direction of his voice, let his breath fan your cheek; you smell cigarettes and remnants of Art's chewing gum. "I know you're not," you coo, pressing your ass back against his painfully hard length. "Art made me cum twice before I ever got on my knees for him. You're selfish."

"Damn right I am," Patrick breathes, tightening his grip around your torso and near-dragging you back to the bed. "Always have been, too."

You're walked to the bed where Art waits, arms crossed over his chest as he watches you get manhandled into position. He'd offer you a hand, a way out, if you weren't smiling so wide, giggling beneath your breath as Patrick pushes between your shoulder blades and bends you over the edge of your own mattress. You catch yourself with your hands on Art's knees, face dangerously close to his now rock-hard cock as Patrick uses both hands to pull your bottoms and panties off in one go. His eyes linger on your exposed cunt as he slips two fingers through your folds, grinning- "fucking soaked, huh?"

"Fuck yes," you breathe. You think he's going to stretch you out on his fingers and you're about to object, tell him you don't need it, when you hear a condom packaging rip open and the tip of his cock presses against your entrance. You can only gasp in response.

"Tell me yes, say you want it," Patrick breathes.

"Fuck me, Zweig."

You make eye contact with Art as Patrick slowly presses into you, using your own wetness as lube. Art watches you with sinful eyes, something deep inside of him like watching you fall apart under his best friend's touch, but you refuse to reduce him to a cuck. You let Art lift your chin just enough to press a tender kiss against your lips as Patrick starts to thrust into you, slowly increasing his pace as he feels you adjust more and more to his size. You love the taste of Art's kisses, the gentle way his lips take yours, but you're hungry for more of him, so you pull away and try not to focus on those sad eyes of his.

As Patrick snaps his hips into yours and bottoms out inside of you, you lean down and take Art as deep into your mouth as you can manage. As soon as Art finds your rhythm, his eyes flutter closed and a sigh leaves his lips. His hand finds its way to the back of your head, and he holds you there, rocking his hips into your mouth as Patrick tries to match his rhythm. You move in tandem with the ministrations of your boys, with each thrust of Patrick's hips, you're choking further on Art's cock. And with each snap of Art's hips, you're pushed backwards onto Patrick's length, and each time he manages to fill you just that little bit deeper.

"That's it," Patrick's voice is breathy. "Good fucking girl, taking us so well, like you were fucking made for it, huh?"

With each movement, every moan from either boys' lips, you're pushed closer towards the edge of a new level of pleasure, and you can feel warmth beginning to gather in the pit of your stomach. Your fingers dig into the sheets, holding onto them tight and keeping you anchored as you push against Patrick's cock harder, faster... fucking yourself on him in the spirit of competition. You're full to the brim, lips wrapped around Art's cock as you work him close to the edge, eyes looking up at him through your lashes to find a face so fucking pretty you forget to even think of taking a picture. Not that you could even if you wanted to, with his cock embedded in your throat and your arms the only things keeping you up.

The pressure in your stomach, the searing stretch of Patrick's cock makes you wonder if you're a masochist at heart, because you never want that dull pain to end. His moans fall from his lips and permeate the air, a symphony of wants and needs, and you think you could get lost in it forever.

"Oh Jesus Christ," Patrick groans, voice cracking as he nears climax. Art's hips start to shake, his thrust into your mouth becoming erratic and harsh and so much better than it should be when you can feel sweat dripping into your hairline, the sting of tears forming in your eyes as Patrick pounds into you. It takes everything in you not to come undone as his hips jerk forward. It feels too good, too good to last, and you're seconds away when you feel Patrick fucking Zweig reach an arm around your waist to rub fast circles against your clit, less selfish than he proclaims to be.

The three of you cum in perfect unison, your bodies wracked with tremors of a shared climax unlike any you've had before. Patrick presses as deep into you as he can, near-kissing your cervix in instinctual desperation to fill you up despite his condom. Art shoots right into your mouth, pulling back a little so his load lands on your tongue as well, offering you a taste of his lust, one you take happily. Though you're unable to keep it all in your mouth as he pulls out and allows you space to take a breath as you come down from your high. His seed glistens on your lips as Patrick pulls out of you and lets you turn onto your back and lay on your bed, panting heavily as the haze of ecstasy starts to fade.

Art soon joins you, laying down beside you in a dizzy haze of exertion. When you turn your head to look at him, he's already smiling at you, and reaches a hand out to swipe his thumb against your lips, gathering his own cum and pushing it back into your mouth. You bite his thumb with a playful grin and Art laughs in response, the moment between you sweet until the flash of your own instant camera dazes the both of you into silence.

You sit up on your elbows, looking towards Patrick Zweig, who stands with your camera in one hand and a freshly developed photo in the other. He flicks it a few times, unaware of how to speed up the development process, then looks at it as if he's analysing each aspect of his shot. After another beat, he turns the print around to let the both of you see, and grins proudly at his work. The photo is a sweet one, your teeth bared around Art's thumb, the calm after such a storm of pleasure.

"Turns out, I'm great at both sides of this thing," Patrick holds your camera up in show and smiles cheekily, to which you roll your eyes. Though you can't help the laughter that rumbles from your lungs when Patrick flops down onto the mattress, making both you and Art move over to make room for him. Art follows suit, laughter spilling from his throat in harmony, and it spreads quickly to Patrick.

Once the air is silent, Art turns his head to greet the both of you. With a smile, something simple falls from his lips— "dinner?"

You hum in response, nodding your head as your mouth starts to water, though Patrick clears his throat. "Yeah," he sits upright and looks between you before grabbing at one of your thighs and pulling you closer to him, his head dips to the juncture of your neck and shoulder and he speaks simply against your skin. "I'm not done with either of you yet."

taglist;

@lotties-ashwagandha @daughterhouse @kiiwizz @doll-0f-flesh @jackierose902109 @lonnie2390147 @hedonisticwomen @ysuftmikey @viena-vie @whitewashedghanianlol @kolsmikaelson @nikirikii @dumbass-sappho-stan @seriousaliysa @majathepapaya @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo @lovezclub @s-u-t @sceletaflores @24kmar - cont. in comments!

#art donaldson smut #patrick zweig smut #challengers 2024 #art donaldson x reader #patrick zweig x reader #challengers smut #art donaldson #art x reader #art smut #art donaldson x you #art donaldson imagine #patrick zweig x you #patrick zweig imagine #patrick zweig x art donaldson #art x patrick

307 notes · View notes

pnsteblnme · 2 days

Text

final(s) week ✿ a.r.

pairing: alessia russo x fem!reader

summary: even though you're insufferable, your girlfriend helps you get through finals week (this one is for everyone who’s getting their asses kicked by their exams cause like same <3 but i’m crossing my fingers for you!!)

warnings: school, swearing, stress?, a bit angsty maybe, very self-indulgent :)

word count: 2.5k

a/n: first of all, i'm very sorry for disappearing from writing for like almost a year 🥹 i had my finals and barely had time to eat, let alone write but i only have one more to go so i hope i’ll get to write more in the future! i also have a few requests in my inbox that i’ll try to work on (sorry that you guys have to wait this long) and lastly, i don’t know anything about studying architecture so idk if the things happening here are even remotely close to the truth 😜

“Fuck!”

A few sets of eyes turned at your exclamation as you bent down to pick up the things you’d knocked over during your side squats.

Across the room, Alessia watched with a sympathetic look as you shook your head and grumbled in annoyance. She knew that you’d been stressed out because of your upcoming finals and was almost used to seeing you in a bad mood.

Of course, she understood that majoring in Architecture while pursuing a career as a professional athlete was challenging. What she hadn’t expected was for you to almost crumble in on yourself.

The closer the deadlines came, the less you smiled. When the team had bonding night, you stayed home and worked on your project. When Alessia came home from said nights (she only went because you insisted she go), you were still working and would continue to until you were on the brink of falling asleep.

The agitated frown on your face became a constant. With the end of training, you’d hurry home and dash into your study, only coming out to have a rushed dinner with your girlfriend.

The bags under your eyes turned shades the night sky was jealous of. Every time Alessia tried to coax you into doing something to take your mind off of things, you insisted that you couldn’t waste time that was better spent on your project.

So, most nights the blonde lay in your shared bed, worried frown etched onto her face as she prayed that you wouldn’t overwork yourself. Reaching out her fingers, she felt like there was more than distance between you.

Sure, she could feel you twisting and turning on the other side of the bed but you weren’t there, at least not really. Your mind has been all over the place, constantly jumping from task to task, and you two hadn’t had a real conversation in weeks.

A nudge on Alessia’s arm broke her out of her thoughts as Leah raised an eyebrow, “What’s got her knickers in a twist?”

Letting out a concerned sigh, the striker opened her mouth to answer, eyes still focused on you across the room, when an Irish accent filled the air.

“Yeah, Less, ye not treating the missus right?” Katie teased as she ruffled Alessia’s hair, who rolled her eyes and shrugged the smaller woman off.

Finally tearing her gaze away from you, the blonde turned towards the two, “I’m really worried about her,” she breathed out, fiddling with her fingers.

Leah smacked the back of Katie’s head when she noticed that this was troubling Alessia. “What’s going on?” the blonde questioned in a softer voice.

Sighing Alessia’s eyes travelled back towards you, “It’s finals week in her uni and she’s been working like a dog, day and night, spending every last minute either here or trying to finish her projects. She refuses to believe it but it’s been taking a huge toll on her and I just don’t know how to help.”

Leah and Katie shared a look as they watched the striker’s shoulders drop. They had noticed you gradually pulling away from the team, never joining them on nights out with the excuse of having to do things for school. Initially, everyone believed that you just didn’t fancy the idea of socialising, knowing that you were a rather introverted person.

“I don’t think there’s much you can do except be there for her and make sure that she takes care of herself. Or take care of her yourself when she doesn’t,” the blonde advised as she placed a gentle hand on Alessia’s shoulder.

Katie nodded, “Yeah, maybe you can distract her a bit.” She nudged your girlfriend’s side with a wink, adding in a whisper, “If ya know what I mean.”

Alessia rolled her eyes, threw her head back with a groan and stormed off, not before calling out a ‘You’re unbelievable!’ at the two women who were left cackling.

At the end of the day, everyone found themselves in the changing room, packing their things and getting ready to go home, before meeting at Beth and Viv’s for game night. So, even though all of the girls were exhausted, elated chatter bounced off the walls as the anticipation of an evening full of competitiveness grew.

You had just finished showering and started throwing your things into your bag when a body collided with your back, arms being wrapped around your neck and legs trapping your waist. Your breath got caught in your throat before you realised that only one person would do this.

“Kyra!” you exclaimed in an agitated tone as your eyebrows furrowed and you tried to pry her off of you.

The mischievous laughter in your ear only irritated you further, proving to be an obstacle in your plans to get home as soon as possible to be able to work on your projects. “You wanna be partners later? We’ll destroy everyone,” the Australian grinned as she rocked back and forth.

“I’m not coming,” you huffed out as you still struggled to get her off your back, “Now get off, Kyra!” You loved that girl from the bottom of your heart but your bad mood was starting to worsen with every second that passed and you had to do everything in your power not to snap at her.

“What?” she asked, slowly sliding down to stand on the ground and turning to face you, “But we’re the Beyond Lunacy Buddies!” the brunette said, holding your shoulders and shaking your body. “And you already missed the last one,” pouted Kyra.

Your knuckles turned white with the way you were clenching your hands, “Not everyone can sit on their ass and play games the whole day,” you scoffed, ripping yourself out of her grip and zipping your bag. You knew it was wrong of you to lash out at her like that but at that moment everything you could think about was how this interaction was wasting time you didn’t have.

The strict schedule you’d designed barely left you room to breathe and you were determined to follow it down to a T so that you’d get good grades. You didn’t even know why you were so desperate to excel in every task you got, still having your career as a footballer if you didn’t graduate with flying colours. Maybe it was for the slim chance that your parents finally said they were proud of you. Maybe it was to prove your classmates wrong, although they always had something to say, no matter what you did. Maybe it was to prove to yourself that you weren’t a failure. The reason didn’t matter in the end because you were intent on finishing the things you started.

“Geez, don't be such a gloomy Gus,” Kyra’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts as you quickly grabbed your things and hurried to your car before you had time to regret your words.

Worried eyes followed your disappearing form as everyone wondered what happened to your usually kind and bubbly self.

Slamming the door shut and dropping your bags next to the shoe rack, you grabbed your headphones from the kitchen counter and made your way into your study, closing the door behind you. You turned on noise cancellation and clicked play on your favourite playlist as you began ruffling through all the sheets spread across the desk.

The ideas for the model house and the concept of the mall had been ready a long time ago but the realisation of those ideas wasn’t as easy. Already having done the foundation of the house and more than half of the drawings for the mall, a good portion of the task was done but that didn’t make it any less draining.

You didn’t know how many hours had passed as your headphones died and you were finishing one of the last blueprints while you held a wall of the model, waiting for the glue to dry. When your pencil accidentally rolled under the table, you carefully let go of the wall before you leaned down to pick it up.

After grabbing it, you lean back up. A loud bang fills the air as you bump your head against the table. You rub the back of your head with a wince when the sound of a slight crack follows.

“No, no, no,” you whisper, quickly sitting up and seeing exactly what you were afraid of. The wall you’d been holding came crashing down. Leaning back a bit to check if anything else was damaged, you noticed that in your hurry to sit up, you’d creased a few blueprints on your desk.

The pencil you just picked up was flung across the room as your vision blurred. You could hear your heartbeat thumping in your ears, your hands started shaking, and your breathing picked up.

Shaky hands smacked your forehead while tears were making their way down your cheeks. “You’re so fucking stupid,” you grumbled with a trembling voice, each word accompanied by another smack to your head.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you muttered, hands now tangled in your hair in frustration as you felt a sob bubbling up your chest, opening your mouth to gasp for air as it felt like your throat was closing up.

Gentle hands grabbed your wrists and intertwined with your fingers. “Hey, it’s okay,” whispered Alessia with a soothing voice as she squeezed your hands.

So absorbed in your frustrations, you hadn’t even noticed that your girlfriend was already home. As soon as you saw her standing next to you though, you felt like you could breathe again. Her mere presence calmed you down drastically.

You slowly raised your head to look at the blonde and when she saw your tear-stained cheeks, she immediately pulled you up from your chair and into a tight hug. Even more tears trickled down your face as you were engulfed in Alessia’s perfume and the overwhelming warmth that came with her hugs.

Sobs racked through your whole body and you clenched your fists into the back of the blonde’s t-shirt, hiding your head in her chest. One of the striker’s hands rubbed slow circles onto your back as the other held your head against her and gently scratched your scalp.

When your sobs calmed down a bit and with your head still buried in the crook of your girlfriend’s neck (because you knew that you wouldn’t be able to string together a coherent sentence if you looked at her), you mumbled with a weak voice, “I- It’s just all too much. I actually thought I could do this, you know. ‘Cause how hard can it be to go to training for a few hours and then build some stupid house and make a few drawings?”

Once the dam broke, the words tumbled from your mouth like an avalanche, “Turns out, if you’re as incompetent as I am, it’s too fucking hard. And I know there are thousands of people out there who have it so much worse than I do so I shouldn’t be whining like this but I just feel like I’m drowning and I don’t know what to do,” you confessed before taking a deep breath.

You slowly loosened your grip on Alessia’s shirt and started pulling away as you whispered with your head hung, “Sorry, I’m just dumping all of this on you, it’s not that big of a deal.” You took another step back, wiping away your tears and clearing your throat, “So, how was game night?”

Before you could put more distance between you, soft hands grabbed your cheeks and pulled you close again, “Stop invalidating your feelings!” You drowned in ocean-blue eyes as Alessia reassured, “It is a big deal and I want you to dump everything on me so we can work through it together.”

Her thumbs grazed your cheekbones, your heartbeat slowly returning to its normal pace, while the blonde continued, “I know finals week is very stressful but you’re more than capable of doing this. I believe in you and so should you! If you talk to me and let me help you, we can make sure that you’re not neglecting your health and that you’re not biting everyone’s heads off at training while you’re building a Dreamhouse even Barbie dreams about.”

Letting out a quiet laugh, you hesitantly nodded your head, wrapping your arms around her waist as the striker added once more, “And just because other people have it worse, doesn’t mean you’re not having a hard time.”

You let out a sigh as you nuzzled against Alessia again, “I’m sorry. For everything. I know I haven’t been the nicest person or the best girlfriend. It’s just felt like my final week rather than finals week,” you chuckle with an apologetic smile.

“Don’t worry, you’ll have everything ready in time. You have three more days to finish this, and on two of those we don’t have training, which means that you’re not working any more today!” the blonde grinned, excited now that the time you two spent at home could actually be spent together.

Seeing Alessia’s smile instantly brought a warm, fuzzy feeling to your stomach as you felt overcome with gratitude. Not only for the fact that she stayed with you and supported you but also for the fact that she tried to understand you.

“God, what would I do without you?” you question, squishing the blonde’s cheeks in your hands as you pressed a feather-light kiss to her nose, forgetting about your deadlines for the first time in what felt like months. “But seriously, thank you for putting up with me even if I’ve been a ‘gloomy Gus’ as Kyra would say.”

“Of course, love,” Alessia answered with a gentle peck, “You don’t need to thank me. But you should apologise to Kyra. While I quite enjoyed a night without her pestering, she seemed very sad.”

You grimaced as you let your head fall against the taller woman’s shoulder and sighed, “I’ll go call her.” Staying in Alessia’s embrace for a moment longer, you reluctantly pulled away from her warmth and started walking to the bedroom.

“Y/N.”

Before you could make it out of the study, your girlfriend’s voice stopped you.

Turning around, you were met with Alessia smiling lovingly at you, eyes sparkling in the moonlight.

“I’m proud of you.”

Hearing those words brought new tears to your eyes as you rushed back into the room and tackled the striker in a bear hug. The quiet groan she let out when your body crashed into hers was lost on your ears when you continuously whispered ‘I love you’ while suffocating her with kisses.

Not even when you graduated top of your class had your parents told you they were proud of you. Not even when you and your team won the Olympics that same year. But you didn’t care anymore because you had a clumsy blonde who’d tell you every day.

#woso #alessia russo #alessia russo x reader #arsenal x reader #arsenal wfc #woso x reader #arsenal

225 notes · View notes

azzibuckets · 3 days

Text

drunken confessions [pazzi]

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

a/n: azzi’s appearance in this is heavily inspired by her sexy ass damelio fit .. also i feel like this is very similar to my wisdom teeth blurb lol…anyways my mind is so fucked rn like i’m about to fall asleep and the ending makes no sense wyf

summary: azzi drinks just a bit too much and confesses things to paige that neither of them are ready to hear yet

word count: 1.7k

part 2 | masterlist

Paige knew she had no right to be jealous over Azzi. Azzi was her best friend, had been her best friend since they were little twerps in high school. They’d both dated other guys and girls, had changed in front of each other, did all the typical shit that normal best friends did. But this fiery pit at the bottom of her stomach, stoked from seeing Azzi grind on a random stranger that had bought her a drink earlier that night, had started to become an achingly familiar feeling over the last few months.

As soon as the sickeningly bright orange sex on the beach had landed in front of Azzi, the bartender nodding his head at the pretty blonde unashamedly staring from across the bar, Paige had retreated into her shell, brooding in the corner of the room and rejecting all her teammates’ invitations to sing karaoke or play pool, things she normally did with glee. And when she saw the blonde approach Azzi, brushing her hand against her best friend’s shoulder and guiding her to the dance floor where she held her hips as they danced, the pit in her stomach had become a furious tornado.

Paige swished the last few drops of beer in her glass around, trying to look at anything but her best friend. But she made the mistake of looking up for one more glance, and locked eyes with Azzi, who smirked as if she knew, and started making her way over.

“Babe,” Azzi slurred. As she got closer, Paige saw the glazed over look in her eyes, the sway in her step, and the red flush in her cheeks, undoubtedly due to the copious amounts of tequila that she’d downed that night. “Babe,” Azzi repeated when she got closer. “What’s got you all grouchy over here?”

Paige looked away, unable to control the fury expanding in her chest from seeing Azzi casually getting so intimidate with another woman. “Nothing,” she muttered. “Why don’t you go back to your girlfriend?”

“My girlfriend?” Azzi reached for Paige, who brought a hand up to steady her. But before she knew it, Azzi was leaning even closer, overwhelming the blonde with the scent of her vanilla perfume combined with the sour odor of alcohol. Azzi hooked her leg around Paige’s and oh. She was now fully sitting on her lap, her hips straddling Paige’s, looking down at her with an intensity that Paige didn’t recognize.

“Az,” Paige said lowly. “What are you doing?” She didn’t make a move to change their positions though, instead placing her hands on Azzi’s waist.

In the recent months, their dynamic had shifted, and both of them knew it. They’d gradually allowed themselves to touch each other in ways that were dangerously far from platonic, but they’d had a silent agreement, a tension binding them together to not show this intimacy to anyone else, to not let anyone else see it because this, whatever this was, was only for themselves.

But now Azzi was breaking this silent pact, was all over Paige’s lap in front of throngs of college students, looking at Paige in a way that electrified her entire body.

“What?” Azzi challenged. She rolled her hips for a moment, allowing herself to grind down on the blonde. “You want me to leave?”

“Fuck,” Paige hissed, looking up at her with half lidded eyes. Azzi had never looked sexier, her hair in long braids falling down her back, a light sheen of sweat covering her neck, her lips plump and pouting. “Don’t you dare fucking leave. I’m jus’ saying, we shouldn’t be doing this right now.” Paige might’ve had a beer, but she was still acutely aware of the looks they were gathering from their teammates, who could sense the sexually charged air between them as Azzi grinded down again on Paige’s lap, eliciting a soft moan from the blonde.

“You don’t want me?” Azzi’s voice was hard. Her hands found her way to the ends of Paige’s shirt, grabbing and scrunching the cotton as she brought her face closer to Paige’s, breathing heavily.

Paige groaned as she let her hands travel over her best friend’s body. Azzi was wearing a crop top that barely covered her boobs, showing the sharp lines of her abdomen. Paige traced her fingers down Azzi’s stomach, relishing the way Azzi’s muscles flexed and hardened under her touch. The blonde bit her lip as she caught sight of the younger girl’s shiny belly piercing. She sent a quick prayer of thanks to the gods for whoever invented such a sexy piece of jewelry. “Azzi, you’re making this so hard for me right now,” she breathed.

Azzi stiffened, her expression now cold and distant. “Fine,” she said calmly. “I’ll just go back and dance with some other girl.” She got up to move, but Paige’s hands gripped her waist even tighter and firmly pulled her down, until every inch of their bodies was connected, their hips fitted together like perfect puzzle pieces.

“No,” Paige said roughly. “You’re going home now. With me.”

Azzi squirmed, trying to get out of Paige’s grasp. “You can’t control me,” she said threateningly. “I’m having a good time. Stop being such a party pooper.”

“I’m cutting you off,” Paige said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re wasted as shit and you’re gonna feel like hell during practice tomorrow. You should be thanking me.” She stood up, lifting Azzi off her lap.

Azzi, clearly annoyed, moved to turn around and return to the dance floor, but Paige grabbed her wrist. “Azzi Fudd,” she gritted through her teeth. “Stop making a scene.”

“Paige,” the younger girl whined, stomping her foot like a little child. When Paige fixed her with an icy glare, Azzi finally relented, allowing herself to be pulled through the crowd until they exited the stuffy bar, the frigid Connecticut air hitting their faces.

Paige led Azzi to the car. She helped her into the passenger seat, reaching over her to buckle her seatbelt. As the lap belt clicked into the buckle, Azzi leaned in, putting her mouth against her ear. “I love it when you do that.”

Paige shivered at the feeling of Azzi’s breath tickling her cheek, her lips gently brushing her earlobe. “Do what?”

“Take care of me.” Azzi bit her lip sensually, so drunk she was unaware of the effects she was having on the older girl. “No one does it like you.”

“I’d hope so,” Paige chuckled dryly. “I’m your best friend.”

Azzi’s eyes glinted, her smile sharp. “We both know we aren’t just that.”

Paige recoiled, her mouth slightly dropped at Azzi’s acknowledgement of the tension between the two of them. They’d been dancing around each other for so long, both of them refusing to explicitly mention the fact their dynamic hadn’t been the same for a while. It was almost comforting, this middle ground where neither of them was obligated to make a move and they could just go with the flow. But with just a few words, Azzi had let all of the pretenses come crashing down. “Let’s just go home,” Paige said finally, shutting the passenger door resolutely.

Azzi leaned her head against the window, hoping to absorb some of the coolness of the glass and relieve her pounding headache. She looked at Paige, who was staring straight ahead as she drove, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tight her knuckles were turning white.

“You’re really fucking great.”

Paige’s expression remained stony, but the muscle in her jaw flickered. “Mhm.”

“And you’re so gorgeous. And I know you know that, cos all the girls online are all over you. But none of them can see how beautiful you really are. None of them know you like I do.” Azzi paused. “I think about you all the time, and whenever I do I get this warm fucking feeling in my chest that won’t go away no matter how hard I try and-,”

“Stop.” Paige hit the brake pedal a little bit too hard, and the car jolted. “Stop it, Azzi. We’re not gonna talk about your feelings until you’re sober, alright?”

“No, I need you to know. I’ve been keeping this to myself for so long and it hurts so fucking bad not being able to kiss you.” They were at the apartments now, and Paige aggressively put the car in park before rubbing her face with her hands.

“You should stop talking before you wake up tomorrow and regret everything you say,” Paige warned, helping her best friend out of the car and into their home.

Azzi swiveled, pushing Paige against the wall. “I won’t,” she said defiantly. “I won’t regret it.”

Paige looked at her with such soft eyes, and Azzi bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, trying to keep the tears from leaking out. Paige brought her thumb up, softly stroking it against Azzi’s cheek. “You’re too special,” Paige said breathily. “You’re too special to me for us to have this conversation while you’re wasted like this.”

Azzi’s eyebrows furrowed. “Can I at least kiss you?”

The blonde laughed at that, gently pushing Azzi away to create more space between them. “Not like this.”

Azzi pouted then, and Paige had to put her hand over her mouth to physically stop from laughing, an action she knew would upset Azzi even more. “How ‘bout tomorrow?” the dark haired girl suggested, a dopey smile on her face. “We can kiss then? I’ll be sober, I swear.”

Paige’s smile faltered, and she crossed her arms, as if to restrain herself from reaching out to Azzi again. “I don’t know if you’ll wanna do that, Az,” Paige said, her voice gentle.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Azzi’s hands were on her hips, a questioning look on her face.

“Because we both know you’re not ready to address whatever the fuck we are.” Paige looked away. “If you were ready, you wouldn’t be telling me all this while you were wasted. You’d have the guts to be mature and tell me sober.”

“That’s not fair.” Azzi sounded choked. “This isn’t easy, Paige. We’ve been friends for so long. How am I supposed to be okay with the fact that we can never go back to what we were before?”

“That’s why when we wake up in the morning, I know you’re gonna ignore me and pretend like this never happened.” Paige brushed hair out of Azzi’s eyes, letting her fingertips linger as they touched her temple. “I know you, Azzi. You run away from your problems. This won’t be any different.”

Azzi’s arms fell to her side. “Maybe if you stopped making assumptions then this wouldn’t be so difficult.”

A tired smile formed on Paige’s lips. “It’s late, Azzi. We’re both exhausted and grumpy. Can we just go to sleep and figure it out in the morning?”

Azzi opened her mouth to argue, but realized that the older girl wouldn’t budge. “Fine,” she grumbled. “Whatever.” She stormed off into her room, making sure to slam the door loudly behind her. She knew she was being immature, but she hated how stubbornly cynical Paige was being, acting as if there was no chance that they could work out.

Azzi laid on her bed, staring at the ceiling until she was in that half asleep state, mind hazy with the beginnings of dreams but still slightly conscious. She almost thought it was a dream when Paige slipped into her room, standing over her with a pensive expression on her face. She thought it was a dream when Paige bent down, planting a kiss to her forehead and stroking her braids. “P?” She murmured, rolling to her side.

“Whatever happens between us, just know that I love you.”

“Nothing bad will happen.” Azzi yawned, still unsure of whether she was asleep or not. She buried her face in Paige’s shirt, and Paige wordlessly climbed into her bed, joining her under the cover and wrapping herself around the younger girl, resting her chin onto her head.

#paige bueckers #azzi fudd #pazzi #uconn wbb #friends to lovers #fluff #angst

188 notes · View notes

driverlando · 4 hours

Text

✧.* TWO BEST FRIENDS IN A ROOM

synopsis - you and charles are two bestfriends, but over the years you become more

a/n: my first request! A Charles leclerc x singer!reader smau. hope you enjoy, pls reblog and follow :)

charles_leclerc

liked by yourinstagram, charlesfan16 and 1,314,741 others

charles_leclerc happy birthday @yourusername sorry I can’t make it this year. drinks are on me the next time we meet ❤️

view all 2,084 comments

charlesfan16 friendship goals

↳ y/nfan69 I NEED them to be more

f1forever they’ve been there for eachother since the beginning of their careers 🥹

oscarpiastri why don’t I ever get a birthday post on instagram

↳ y/nfan29 you’re just not her

↳ landonorris neither do I :(

f1forever34 oh to have drinks with the charles leclerc

yourusername

liked by charles_leclerc, taylorswift and 1,114,162 others

yourusername thank you once again coachella, you were amazing!

📸 by the adorable @charles_leclerc (p.s thanks for the drinks 🥂)

view all 3,567 comments

yourfan16 ADORABLE??!?!?

↳ leclercforever let’s not make this something into something it isn’t

↳ espresso78 I NEED THEM TO BE A COUPLE

charles_leclerc anytime 🥂

y/nbestsinger THEY HAD THEIR DRINK!! 🥹

landonorris I’m the adorable one, not him

↳ charles_leclerc someone’s jealous

arianagrande pretty girl ✨

—

IS LOVE IN THE AIR? CHARLES LECLERC AND CHILDHOOD BEST FRIEND Y/N SPARK ROMANCE RUMOURS

In a twist that has sent fans into a frenzy, Formula 1 star Charles Leclerc and singer Y/N, who have been best friends since childhood, were spotted holding hands during a leisurely stroll in Monaco yesterday. The sighting has ignited rumors that the pair’s relationship has blossomed into something more than just friendship.

The duo was seen walking along the picturesque Port Hercule, laughing and appearing very much at ease in each other’s company. Both were dressed casually, with Charles sporting a simple white T-shirt and blue jeans, while Y/N looked effortlessly chic in a miu miu white skirt and blue top. But it wasn’t their fashion choices that caught the public’s eye—it was the undeniable chemistry and the intimate gesture of holding hands.

While the public speculation has been rampant, sources close to Charles and Y/N have confirmed to Daily Mail that the two are indeed in a romantic relationship. “Charles and Y/N have always been very close, but over the past few months, their bond has deepened,” a source revealed. “They’ve realized that their connection is more than just platonic, and they’re exploring this new chapter together.”

Another insider added, “They’ve been inseparable lately. It’s been a natural progression from friendship to romance. They’re very happy and are taking things one step at a time.”

A Friendship Turned Romance

Charles and Y/N’s story is the stuff of fairy tales. The pair grew up in Monaco, attending the same school and sharing numerous childhood memories. Despite their demanding careers—Charles in the high-octane world of Formula 1 racing and Y/N in the glitzy music industry—they have always made time for each other. Their close bond has often been a topic of admiration among their fans, who have long speculated about a potential romantic link.

What’s Next for the New Couple?

As Charles gears up for the upcoming Grand Prix and Y/N prepares for her next album release, the couple is reportedly keen to keep their relationship private and out of the public eye. However, given their high-profile careers, that may be easier said than done.

Despite the challenges that may come with dating in the spotlight, it’s clear that Charles and Y/N are ready to navigate their new relationship together. Whether it’s supporting each other at races and concerts or enjoying quiet moments in Monaco, this celebrity pairing is already proving to be one of the most talked-about romances of the year.

Stay tuned for more updates on Charles Leclerc and Y/N’s blossoming romance as we follow this beautiful love story unfold!

—

charles_leclerc

liked by yourusername, landonorris and 1,749,888 others

charles_leclerc Two bestfriend in a room…

view all 5,678 comments

landonorris they will kiss 😌

↳ f1fans67 😭😭😭

charlesfan56 CAN YOU HEAR ME SCREAMING???

↳ y/nforever2 IM SO HAPPY

formulaonefan3 couple goals 🥹

[liked by charles_leclerc and yourinstagram]

yourusername my muse 🫶

[liked by charles_leclerc]

↳ y/nthebestsinger so happy for you bestie

↳ charlesfan1009 they’re so cute 😭😭

↳ oscarpiastri I thought that was me :(

yourbestfriend fave couple ❤️

taylorswift love you two!

#formula one scenarios #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc scenarios #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc smau #charles leclerc social media au #f1 fanfic #formula one x reader #formula one smau

120 notes · View notes

sturniolo-simp4life · 1 day

Text

Hard to say- Matt sturniolo

overview- you and the sturniolo’s have been best friends since you remember, but you’ve always had a thing for Matt. When a new girl, Abby, moves into town, things between you and Matt change.

warnings- none. No smut yet.

pt.2

“y/n! If you don’t get your ass downstairs, we are gonna leave you at home.”

Me and the triplets were about to go to the movies. Unfortunately, nick wasn’t being very patient with me.

“nick wait! Im almost done!”

I rushed down the stairs, only to see Chris and Matt sitting on the couch.

“finally,” Chris grumbled. “Shut up Chris,” I retorted. “It just a girl thing.”

Matt chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Come on, let’s go.”

Butterflies crept under my skin as Matt’s eyes locked with mine. He gave me a smirk.

“sorry Chris, im taking your spot.” I stepped into the front seat of the car, right next to Matt.

Chris groaned. “Why can’t you just sit in the back with nick! Now I have to deal with him.” “Shut up and sit down Chris,” nick said.

Me and Matt laughed at their bickering.

“I’m so fucked,” I said. “He gave that test in English next week and I haven’t even studied.”

“fuck- thanks for reminding me,” Matt grumbled. Matt and I had our 4 core classes together, so we always studied with each other.

“study session tomorrow?” You asked. “Sure I’m down,” he said back.

“you’re sleeping over tonight right?” “Yeah,” I replied.

“that movie was ass! Absolute waste of money.” nick was going on about how bad it was.

“Nick, it wasn’t that bad,” I said.

he scoffed. “Stop lying to yourself y/n. It ass.” You giggled.

“I hate to ask, but why am I sleeping over on a school night? You know how that goes.”

every single time I slept over we wouldn’t go to sleep until midnight, and that wasn’t exactly ideal because of school.

“it’s fine. We’ll go to bed early this time, trust.”

that didn’t exactly happen, because all four of you woke up late the next morning.

you and Matt were in your class the next morning, still feeling a bit tired from last night.

Suddenly the bell rang, but not to much later, a girl walked in the door. You had never seen her before.

“this is classroom 308 right?” She asked. The teacher nodded.

“you must be the new student,” the teacher said. “Go ahead and introduce yourself.”

everybody’s attention was on her now.

“Um hi I guess. My name is Abagail, but you guys can call me Abby. I just moved here from Pennsylvania.”

You hated to admit it, but you envied her. She hand beautiful brown curls, which you assumed were natural, and she had piercing olive green eyes.

her tan skin looked smooth and glowing.

“Alright Abby, thank you for joining us. You can take a seat next to Matt. Matt, please raise your hand.”

you looked next to your were Matt was sitting as he raised her hand. She smiled and said a brief hello to him, as he did back to her.

although you were sitting right next to Matt, you couldn’t help but feel jealous of her.

you kept watching her.

every so often, so would tap Matt’s shoulder and “ask” him questions about the lesson.

Your eyes narrowed when they started laughing about something. Her hand made its way to his shoulder and you felt yourself get even more angry.

who did this girl think she was?

The bell rung finally, and everyone was off to 2nd period.

you shared 2nd period with Matt too, because it was math. You would usually walk with him but he was talking with Abby.

you walked over to hook and stood beside him.

“my next class is math,” Abby said while looking at her schedule. “Room 420. Do you know that room?”

“Yeah that’s my next class too.” Matt said. Abby smiled. “Do you think you can walk me?”

Matt looked over to you. “Can I walked Abby to her class y/n?” “Yeah sure,” you said in a fake voice.

you glared at them as they walked out the door side by side, laughing with each other.

in math, you sat next to your best friend ally. She was babbling about some guy she met at the mall recently, but you weren’t listening to her.

your eyes were fixated on Matt and Abby, who sat next to each other, again.

“y/n!” Ally snapped a finger in front of your face. You blinked and looked at her. “Huh? What?”

“You’ve been staring at Matt and the new girl for the past 15 minutes.”

“I know that,” you grumbled. Ally just laughed. “If you’re so jealous you should just tell him.”

you sighed and shook your head. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“then tell me, how does it work?” You sighed again. “I just don’t wanna ruin our friendship. I mean, we’ve known each other since elementary school.”

you looked at him briefly and looked back at ally. “If I tell him and he doesn’t feel the same way, it won’t just ruin things between me and him, but with his brothers too.”

ally didn’t looked convinced. “What if he does like you back?”

“well that’s very unlikely,” you grumbled.

Ally sighed. “Well, I hope things go well between you two.” “me too,” you said.

the bell rung for lunch.

pt1. of the series!

103 notes · View notes

4unnyr0se · 2 days

Text

❥ study sesh | satoru gojo

warnings: college au!, fem reader, gojo is submissive lol, goldren retriever gojo, gojo isn't very smart but thats okay we love him, fingering, roughness, making out, hickeys, top! reader, geto is mentioned several times, couch sex, readers favorite kind of sushi is also my favorite kind, degrading, insecure reader, asphyxiation, mentions of vaping and drinking, mentions of marijuana use, protected sex, choso mentioned, geto is a bastard, doordash is expensive and i dont like that

MDNI | 18+ content

word count -> 4k

Gojo groaned at the email he was just sent, running his hands down his pale face in annoyance. He slammed his laptop closed and tossed his head back, groaning exasperatingly. Failing a required class, seriously? Out of all the things he could do at university this was by far the most cliche. So annoyingly cliche, like his entire college life was a very niche film. Rolling his azure blue eyes, Gojo opened his laptop to reread the email his professor sent him. His high-and-mighty professor had arranged a tutoring session with the only tutor for History of Japan 201. Lucky him.

“Dickhead,” Gojo mumbled, pushing himself out of his rolling chair. He quickly stretched and placed his laptop inside his backpack along with the mess of empty vapes and crumbled-up phone numbers that he swore he would text (he never did.) He checked out how he looked in the mirror, adjusting his v-neck collar and fluffing out his snow-white hair just a little bit. He may not have known who you were yet, but he’d be damned if he didn’t look fine at any given moment.

“Yo, I’m going out.” Gojo spoke to Geto, his suitmate. Geto took the joint out of his mouth and raised an eyebrow, offering the blunt to Gojo.

“Why? There are no parties happening tonight, at least not that I know of.” Geto asked, sitting up on the edge of his bed. Geto’s bed was significantly nicer than Gojo’s his sheets didn’t have any suspicious stains on them and they smelled like laundry.

“Fucking Professor Yaga is making me go to a tutoring session for my history class. Says if I don’t do it then my grade’ll be tanked.” Gojo sighed, running his hands through his hair as he leaned against the door to their apartment.

“Tanked? You mean your grade was good this time around?” Geto smirked, putting out the joint at the bottom of his shoe.

“If you count a 59% as good,” Gojo shrugged, putting his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Oh, you’re fucked man.” Geto laughed, laying back down on his bed. “Good luck with the history nerd, you’ll need it.”

“Fuck off man,” Gojo punched Geto on the arm, eliciting a smug chuckle out of Geto’s throat. “I’ll be back when I’ll be back. If you’re bringing a girl over, text first. If I have to see your face covered in cum again I’ll vomit.”

“What, someone jealous?” Geto rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth.

“Whatever man, see you.” Gojo walked out of his apartment, walking down the steps in a hurry. “And get the fuck out of my room! You have your own!” He yelled up the stairs, knowing the chance of Geto hearing him was slim to none.

He put his headphones on, turning up the music to drown out his thoughts. What if you were fucking annoying, or shitty at teaching? How fucked would he be then? Even worse, what if you were too good at your job and Gojo’s grade skyrocketed? Would he be asked to become a tutor? No one fucking wants that, especially not him. Tutoring was for losers and virgins, and he certainly wasn’t any of those.

Gojo walked across campus with a spring in his gait, nodding to the girls who waved at him. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence for girls (and occasionally the female professors) to get flustered when he walked past them. His classmate fainted one time he asked her for a pencil, but he thought she was probably faking it. It wasn’t a secret that Gojo was a known player on and off the campus, but why did the women he slept with have to exaggerate everything? It felt fake, artificial. Gojo liked his women to be lively, to be real.

Whatever, he didn’t need to think about that right now. Gojo approached the library, taking off his headphones and placing them over the curve of his neck. He sat down at a table near the back end where all the books were stored, slowly gathering dust. Hell, some of them haven’t been touched in decades. Maybe it was for a good reason.

“There you are! I looked everywhere.” His ears perked up at the sound of a feminine voice approaching him, his ocean eyes turning to get a look at you. You stood in front of him, clutching your messenger bag in your left hand and a pencil in the other. “You’re five minutes late, you know. Now we only have 55 minutes to go over the material instead of an hour, dummy.”

Gojo rolled his eyes and opened up his backpack, fishing aimlessly for a pencil and a sheet of paper. An empty puffbar fell out and landed on the carpeted floor, which made you raise an eyebrow. Gojo coughed and picked it up hastily, shoving it back inside his black hole of a book bag.

“Don’t act like you’ve never seen a vape before,” He muttered, adjusting his posture.

“No, I have. I’m just surprised that you like that flavor. Blue raspberry ice is so basic.” You retort, sitting down across from him. Spreading out some papers from your messenger bag, you hand Gojo a highlighter and a pen, both in the color blue. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. You are going to highlight what’s important on the documents and write them down on the notebook paper. After that we’ll make flashcards from your notes and just do those until the hour is up, does that sound okay?” You looked at him, taking out your pen and paper to observe how he studied. You didn’t need to review the material, you knew it all by heart anyway. But if you were being completely honest with yourself, it was such a treat to have the academic fate of Satoru Gojo in your hands. Like a little bird trapped in a cage, except this bird was unironically stupid.

“I’d rather kill myself, but okay. Anything to pass this lame-ass lecture.” Gojo muttered in frustration, pulling the lecture documents forward. His eyes lightly skimmed over them, not absorbing much of the information anyway. He could just do this in his apartment, why did Professor Yaga feel the need to torture him with this useless tutoring session? Because his professor hated him, that’s why.

“Hey, don’t diss Japanese history. It’s fun sometimes if you forget about all the wars and whatever.” You softly giggled, curling a lock of your hair behind your ear. Gojo looked up from his highlighting to stare at you for a brief moment, the ghost of a smile touching his plump lips.

‘Cute,’ He thought to himself, turning his attention to the documents once more. He continued to sneak an occasional glance at you to gauge what kind of person you were. Were you a typical history nerd, or was this a persona you put on to protect yourself? Gojo always had a way of reading people, but you remained a mystery to him.

Gojo would groan in frustration frequently, covering it up with a hasty cough. Why couldn’t he read you, and why did he want to get to know you better? This has never happened before with him, not sure for quite a while.

“Uh, are you okay? You’ve been coughing the entire time, do you need to go home or something? I can always email Yaga and tell him you aren’t feeling the best.” You spoke, packing up your pen and papers neatly into your bag, a stark contrast to the way that Gojo’s bag could be considered a biohazard.

“Oh, yeah I’m fine. Just thinking real hard about the Heian period is all.” He smirked, covering up his hazy mind with quick wit.

“Mhm, I’m sure you were, princess.” You retorted, flashing a smug grin at him. “By the way, thanks for completely reinforcing the stereotype of a dumb frat guy. Keeps my image of your kind on track.”

“The fuck you mean by that?” Gojo asked defensively, getting up and throwing his bookbag over his shoulder. “Are you saying that all frat guys are stupid or something?”

“That’s exactly what I’m implying, pretty boy.” You began to walk to the door, grinning to yourself as Gojo quickly caught up to you in just a few paces.

“You’re something else, girl.” He spoke, walking with you out of the library towards the university center. “I like that. Where are you going?” Gojo asked, following you like a lost puppy.

You rolled your eyes, stopping in your tracks. “To the university center. I want dinner.”

Gojo shook his head and wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you away from the path. “No way, I’m not letting my tutor get food poisoning from a shithole like that. I’ll order us something, okay?” He flashed his pearly whites at you, which you couldn’t help but admire. For such a disorganized slob he sure knew how to take care of his hygiene.

You raised an eyebrow skeptically, not minding how he wrapped his arm around you. Almost like Gojo wanted to protect you weirdly enough. “And why would you order me food? All I did was teach you about the Heian period, it wasn’t anything.” You babbled on in an ill attempt to make excuses.

“Just let me buy dinner for you, okay? We can go back to my apartment and study some more there, the library is suffocating me anyway.” Gojo whined, steering the both of you in the direction of his university apartment. It wasn’t a very long walk from the main campus, and yet he was almost always late to every single one of his classes this semester.

“Suffocating you with knowledge, perhaps. Is your brain seriously that small?”

“Maybe don’t diss the guy that’s paying for your dinner, sweetheart.” Gojo wiggled his thin eyebrows at you, walking up the flights of stairs to his apartment. “My roommate might still be home but don’t worry about him. Suguru is usually too stoned to notice anything.” He turned the key and let you both inside, kicking off his shoes onto the carpet beneath him.

You took off your shoes and placed them beside his own, sitting down on the living room sofa. Gojo had sauntered off somewhere, yelling for his suitmate. “Looks like he isn’t here, probably under a bridge or skating with Choso.” He placed his hands in his pockets and sat down a couple of feet beside you.

“So, what did you wanna order? Burgers, Chinese? Anything except soba, I fucking hate soba.” Gojo chuckled, pulling out his phone from his back pocket.

Thinking for a moment, you snapped your fingers together. “Sushi. I haven’t made decent sushi in forever.”

Gojo slowly nodded and opened up a popular food delivery app, hitting the little sashimi icon on the home screen. “A little expensive but okay. D’ya like rolls or sashimi or what?”

“Rolls, spicy. Salmon, if you can.” You told him your preferences, leaning down to take your laptop out of your messenger bag. “I’m making you a Quizlet so that my time here doesn’t feel completely pointless.” As you mumbled to yourself, a tiny little foil packet well out of the side pocket. You grabbed it quickly and shoved it in your front pocket, praying that Gojo didn’t notice.

“Foods ordered, it wasn’t cheap either. Not that I mind, I got plenty of cash to spare!” Gojo smiled, miming throwing money in the air.

You let the faintest smile touch your face, typing away at your laptop. “You’re like a puppy, you know. Like those white labs I see all the time.” You looked at him, admiring the way his messy white hair added to his devilishly handsome aura. “They’re pretty cute.”

Gojo raised an eyebrow and leaned closer to you, almost teasing you with his proximity. “Are you saying that you think I’m cute, nerd?” He purred, sticking his tongue out.

You blushed and rolled your eyes, closing your laptop. “Maybe, so what if I did? I’m just your tutor. Yaga is giving me extra credit just by talking to you.” You mumbled, noticing that Gojo was still leaning closer to you.

“Well…I think you’re pretty cute too.” He grinned, a blush covering his stupidly adorable face.

Your fingers tensed up in your lap, your gaze locked onto the shag carpet beneath you. You wouldn’t dare look into his eyes, not now. They would only suck you into his sexy blue vortex and then before you knew it you would be on his lap, straddling his waist and making out with his neck.

“You think all girls are pretty, you’re a player for fucks sake.” Your voice was filled with scoff and denial, the tension between you two growing with each passing second. “My friend saw you shoving your tongue down a sorority girl's throat last night, did you think she was cute too?”

“Well, technically yeah but it’s only on the surface. She was attractive but she had no personality, unless you count downing vodka crans as a personality trait.” He pointed out, wrapping his arm around your shoulder once more. You two were pressed against each other, your arms limp at your sides. You had no idea what to do, should you touch him as well? Where would you touch him?

“So…you think my personality makes up for the fact that I don’t have a pretty face?” You sighed, your insecurities surrounding you like haunted spirits.

“No! No way, no.” Gojo assured you, cupping your cheeks with his hands. “I think you’re pretty and smart and funny and…I know I’ve only met you a couple hours ago but you’re really fucking sexy.”

You gulped as you felt his warm and large hands on your face, leaning into the touch slightly. Satoru Gojo called you sexy, his history tutor. He thought his history tutor was sexy. You smacked your glossed lips together, your noses touching. “How long until the sushi gets here?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Do you think we could fuck in that amount of time?” You boldly asked, staring into his gorgeous, enchanting blue eyes. You bit down on your bottom lip, your own eyes containing unspoken desires.

Gojo smirked and pulled you onto his lap, his hands resting on the swell of your hips. “Hell yeah, sweetheart.” He whispered, crashing his lips against yours. The kiss was slow at first, your arms wrapped around his neck while his own hands trailed up and down your back, occasionally stopping to feel the round flesh of your ass.

Your tongue entered his mouth, doing battle with his wet muscles before exploring his cavern. Gojo groaned at the sensation of your tongues colliding, attempting to shift himself so he was on top.

You pulled away from the kiss and tutted at him, pushing his chest down so he was leaning against the leather texture of the couch. “No, pretty boy, I’m on top this time.” You spoke softly, your voice dripping with sexuality and confidence.

“This time, huh? You wanna see me again after this?” Gojo smirked, slapping your ass gently. “Someone sure got confident real quick.”

You shrugged and bit down on his bottom lip with your teeth, pulling away a second later. You saw how Gojo reacted to your dominance, how the breath left his lips the second you laid down the law. Your long nails dug into the black tank top he wore, your thumb slipping under the hem to feel his abs.

“You’re so fucking ripped, holy shit.” You breathed out, planting gentle kisses on his neck. You squeezed your legs shut, anxious to receive any friction that would make you feel amazing.

Gojo grinned, taking off his jacket along with his shirt and tossing it behind his head. “What about now, you still like what you see princess?” He chuckled, flexing his biceps to impress you.

“Oh shut up and finger me.” You smiled and rolled your eyes, slamming your lips against his once more. Your hand guided his under the hem of your sweatpants and underneath your panties, prodding them at your weeping entrance. “Fuck me with your fingers before I ride you, Satoru.”

“God, I love it when you tell me what to do.” He groaned, shoving your pants down to your kneecaps along with your panties. He put his fingers inside of his mouth, a popping sound leaving his lips as they were soaked in his spit. “Gotta make sure they don’t hurt you.” He teasingly ran them up your folds, inserting his middle and index finger inside of you slowly. Gojo thrust them up and down at a regular pace, not knowing if you liked it rough or gentle.

“S-shit, your fingers are so fucking long. Oh shit.” You moaned into his ear, slumping yourself against his muscular chest for support. His fingers continued to drill up and inside of you, observing how you convulsed around him if he fucked his fingers in and out of you at the speed of light.

“Yeah, you like that pretty girl? You like getting fucked by some dumb frat guy's fingers?” Gojo whispered into your ear, biting the shell harshly. You squealed in pleasure as you felt his thumb rub harsh circles on your clit. Fuck, he was so fucking good with his hands.

“Fucking love it, holy fuck!” You gasped, feeling your knees start to give way as your orgasm approached. Suddenly, you grabbed Gojo’s wrist and pulled it away from your pulsating core, your breath slow and shallow.

Gojo raised an eyebrow in confusion, his cock throbbing horribly in his boxers. “Was I too rough or something?” He asked, concerned about his performance.

You shook your head in assurance, kissing his forehead gently. “N-no, not at all. It’s just that…I wanna cum on your cock, not on your fingers.” You whispered, playing with the drawstring of his sweatpants. “Also…that erection looks pretty fucking painful. Are you gonna let me ride you or what?” You teased, thumbing with the hem.

Almost instantly Gojo’s sweatpants flew off his body, leaving him only in his very tight black boxers. Your hands tugged down on the hem, pulling the boxers down so only his cock and balls were exposed. He was huge, his mushroom tip was pink and he had a large pulsating vein wrapping around the shaft. “Fuck…do you have a condom?” You asked, wanting so badly to just slam yourself down and fuck him senseless.

“Y-yeah, in my bag over there.” Gojo pointed to his discarded backpack at the entrance of his apartment, secretly wishing it would just fly into his hand like Thor with his hammer.

You wobbled over to retrieve the condom, shuffling through old candy wrappers and empty vape pens. Finding it, you practically sprinted over to sit back down on Gojo’s lap. He took the condom from your hands and tore open the foil with his teeth, rolling the latex on with ease. “Fuck, I’ve never been this sensitive before. You’re a witch.” He breathed out, kissing you softly as you hovered yourself above his cock.

“Shh, just lemme fuck you. Alright, baby?” You purred, lowering yourself down onto his cock. You hissed as his thick mushroom head pushed past your entrance, the pleasure outweighing the pain tenfold. “F-fuck, you’re so fucking big.”

“Tell me something I don’t know, pretty girl.” Gojo chuckled, grabbing onto your hips. He pushed you down further onto his cock, whispering sweet nothings into your ear until he’d bottomed out.

You started to move yourself up and down on his cock, bouncing slowly to grow accustomed to his length and girth. You kissed him passionately, gripping his broad and muscular shoulders for support. “Ngh, fuck!” You cried onto his lips, placing his hands on your waist to guide you.

Gojo’s hands pulled you back and forth, up and down on his length until you got the hang of handling how big he was, your hands now groping your tits as you fucked yourself on his cock. The filthy sound of skin slapping and squishing against skin filled the apartment, the still and stiff air being replaced with the intoxicating aroma of sex and lust.

“God, just like that baby! Fuck, you’re so fucking good at riding this dick princess. Ride my dick, fuck, ride me! Fuck me!” Gojo cried out, resting his head on the cushions behind his naked body as your hips slammed onto his pelvic bone repeatedly, surely leaving bruises for him to wake up to tomorrow.

“You’re so fucking noisy.” You growled, wrapping your hands around his bruised throat. Not enough to stop him from breathing, just enough to let him know who was in charge.

Gojo whimpered as he felt your hands wrap around his throat, his cock twitching inside of you. He had no idea he liked it when he wasn’t in charge when he was being used like a fucktoy. Gojo fucking loved watching ride him, how your sobbing cunt took his cock so nice and so deep.

You tilted your head to the side and smiled darkly, moving even faster on his cock to the point where you were just bouncing on the abused appendage. “What, baby forgot how to use his words? Are you being fucked too good you can’t even speak, huh? Adorable little slut.” You whispered, your lew words making Gojo want to become yours even more.

“Oh, is somebody gonna fucking cum?” You mocked, pouting your lip. Your grip around his neck tightened as you continued to ride him, feeling your orgasm fast approaching. “Fucking cum for me baby, cum like the good little whore you are.”

“Fuck, I’m c-cumming! Fuck, ngh, fuck! Oh my God, fuck! Please” Gojo practically sobbed as his orgasm filled the rubber he wore, his grip on your hips not faltering. He could feel your cunt milk him for all he was worth, still bouncing on him with vigor. “P-please cum, please! Wan’ feel you on me, please!” He begged, his beautiful blue eyes swelling with tears.

You threw your head back as your orgasm finally hit you, pleasure coursing through every single possible vein in your body. “A-ah, shit! Fuck, fuck, oh my God!” You cried out, the bouncing on his cock slowing down as you rode out your high.

Exhausted, you collapsed onto Gojo’s sweaty chest, admiring how good he smelled even after sex. His arm wrapped around your soaked shirt, embracing you gently. “Fuck…that was the best sex I’ve had in a while.” He chuckled, kissing the side of your face.

“Oh yeah? We should do it again sometime after you do your homework of course.” You offered him a half-smirk, pulling yourself off of his now soften cock. You tied the condom and tossed it in a nearby wastebasket, pulling up your sweatpants and panties. “The sushi is probably here by now, should I go get it?”

“Oh fuck,” Gojo grabbed his phone and unlocked it, seeing the notification that the sushi had been delivered ten minutes ago. “Fuck me, we took thirty minutes! Guess you were wrong about timing there, hm?”

You rolled your eyes and opened the apartment door to be greeted by a smug-looking Geto holding your sushi. “I’ve been standing here for about five minutes, you guys are really fucking loud.” He chuckled, allowing himself inside.

“Really, Satoru? On the couch? I sit there sometimes, dude.” Geto placed a hand on his hip, handing you the boxed sushi.

Gojo rolled his eyes and walked over to you, wrapping an arm around your waist. He had put his pants back on but his abs were still very much on display.

“Fuck off, Suguru. Please.” Gojo mumbled, squeezing your waist. You smiled at the welcome touch, especially enjoying the banter the two of them shared.

“Seems like you already did, Satoru,” Geto smirked, walking off to his room.

“Fuck you, dickhead!”

#jjk smut #jjk satoru #jjk x reader #jujutus kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #satoru gojo smut #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo x reader smut

109 notes · View notes

ladykailitha · 2 days

Text

Sweet Home Indiana Part 4

Hi! Back with this lovely story! I am loving the fun everyone is having with this story.

Remember how I said Eddie gets worse? Welcome to step two of three of being a shithead.

Pt 1 Pt 2 Pt 3

****

Steve was playing a bit of pool to burn off steam when trouble walked through the doors. He knew it was the only place for young adults to go to when they wanted a little fun but didn’t want to drive to Indy or Bloomington to get it.

He knew that all right. It still hurt to watch Nancy Wheeler to walk in and with Jonathan Byers on her arm.

She spotted him and waved.

Steve, the ever loving idiot he was, waved back.

Nancy gave him a hug and Jonathan did too. Steve forced himself not to react. Things were water under the bridge with these two. He knew that. But in her eyes, Steve still saw the potential of the life he could have had.

Not that Steve wanted the six kids in an RV like he had when he was in high school. Growing up changed that. Eddie changed that.

Which is when Eddie decided to walk through the doors of The Hideout.

Yep, Steve was in hell. He had been trying to avoid this. He had been wanting to unwind.

In short, he was going to kill Robin for suggesting they come out tonight. Because really? Where else in this god forsaken town were his exes going to go than here?

He made eye connect with Robin who was at the bar watching him play. She looked at the door and set her bottle of beer down. She wove through the crowd to cut Eddie off at the pass.

Eddie’s eyes lit up. “Robin!” he greeted warmly.

“Hey, Ed,” she said, soft but firm.

He looked behind her and then back at her. “Still Steve’s guard dog?”

“Yep!” Robin said showing all of her teeth. “You going to be good tonight?”

Eddie held up his hands. “I’m not here to start trouble. I just want to play some pool and have a beer or two.”

She raised an eyebrow, but let him pass.

Eddie spotted Jonathan and Nancy before he got to the pool tables and changed direction.

He kissed Nancy’s cheek and hugged Jonathan. “Hey, man! What are you up to these days?”

While they caught up, he felt the weight of Steve’s stare boring into the back of his head.

He didn’t want to look over there because he knew what he’d see. Steve Harrington, once the love of his life, bent over a pool table, cue in hand looking better than a man should at their age should look.

Eddie wished he could say that he fought valiantly before he gave in, but that would have made him a damn liar and he would rather not add to his sins being here.

What he saw made him see red. There was a guy standing close to Steve, too close in Eddie’s opinion. He was taller than him, broad shouldered and all smiles. He had one hand on the edge of the pool table with a beer bottle in his other hand. He said something and Steve did his little goofy snort. Wrinkling his nose, big smile, eyes half closed in laughter.

Maybe it was the fact that he was on his third beer and not enough food in system. Maybe it was it was move that Eddie had used on Steve a hundred times before. Maybe it was cause he was plain jealous of anyone who could make Steve laugh like that. He did the one thing he promised Robin he wouldn’t do.

Cause trouble.

He picked up a cue and dusted the end with chalk. The Hideout was known for their unusual black chalk. He blew on the end of his cue and smiled at Steve.

Steve immediately straightened up and away from the guy standing next to him, sensing Eddie’s mood. He gave him a warning glance, but knew it would be futile. Whatever Eddie had planned, he wasn’t about to be deterred.

“You up for a real game of pool, sweetheart?” Eddie asked, all ease and smiles. “Or does your talents still run toward the swimming kind?”

Steve looked over at his companion, who smiled reassuringly at him. He sighed and chalked up his cue.

“Rack ‘em up, Munson,” he growled. “I’ll show you just what you’ve been missing.”

Eddie’s answering grin was feral. He racked up the balls in the triangle and gave them a good shake.

“You’re up,” he said with a wink.

Steve closed his eyes and then lined up his shot. He bent over the table and he pulled back, Eddie let out a low whistle.

Steve jerked on the cue, it manage to break the balls, but none of them fell into a pocket.

“Sorry, babe,” Eddie said, clearly not repentant at all. “That ass has always been a weakness of mine.”

“Interference!” Robin booed, but Steve shook his head.

He knew what Eddie’s game was now, and he wouldn’t be surprised the next time it happened.

“You can look, but you can’t touch,” he said with a smirk. “Go ahead, try to do something with the mess you caused.”

Eddie flinched at the double entendre at that last statement. Steve was good at those, he just missed the days when the other meaning was sexual and not about the mess of their relationship.

Eddie kept drinking, like a man dying of thirst. If only the beer could quench it. The only thing that could sate his thirst was the man he was playing against.

The game was a dead heat throughout, both men in top form. Then it was a race for the eight ball, with Eddie winning, but barely.

“Not bad, Stevie,” Eddie said with a grin. “Maybe you should have let me give you some pointers to start with.”

“If you wanted to get off so badly,” Steve sneered, “maybe you should have stayed in Seattle with your fiancee, Eds.”

The guy that had been standing too close to Steve got between them. “You come in here and flirt with Steve and you have a fiancee? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Steve turned to the guy, away from Eddie. “Hey, Kevin, it’s okay.”

“Like Stevie here isn’t cheating too,” Eddie huffed, angry that Steve had chosen this guy over him. “Your date here is still married.”

Robin was at Steve’s side in a heartbeat, Nancy and Jonathan rushing between Steve and Eddie.

Kevin laughed. “So you’re the ex. Steve told me all about you. How you never picked him ever and you’re back in town trying to fuck up his life all over again.”

Eddie had far passed drunk and into three sheets to the wind category. And he was never kind when he was that drunk.

“Then tell this jackass to give a divorce and I’ll fucking blow this hell hole,” he spat.

The bar went silent. Everyone turned to look at Steve who had gone completely still. His hands were clenched into fists, his jaw set into stone, his eyes hard.

“You know what, asshole,” Steve said coldly, “I was going to sign once I got word back from my lawyer. But then you came into my shop, into my town, and throw your weight around like some hot shot from the big city and the answer is no. No, I won’t sign those god damn papers, because at least I tell people about you. Did your fiancee even know I existed before you asked her to marry you?”

Nancy looked between Steve and Eddie in shock. “Her?”

“Yes, of course I told Chrissy about you,” Eddie sneered crossing his arms and glowering. “You’re getting off the track, darlin’. This isn’t about her. This is about you being an ass and not divorcing me because you’re a bitter old shrew who never went anywhere. Just stuck in the same god damn town, not even living.”

He threw his arms in the air and screamed, “Fuck it!” And stormed out of the bar.

****

Eddie hated himself in the morning. He hate the way he acted when what’s-his-face got too close to Steve. He hated the way he acted when they were playing pool. He hated the way he threw back everything Steve had meant to him back in the guy’s face.

He needed to get to the bank to pull some money out. He needed to get some weed to unwind and dealers don’t take cash.

He shouldn’t buy from an unknown source especially since he didn’t know if it was still same supplier. But Steve was driving him out of his mind and all his nerves were raw and aching. Just like his fucking heart.

He got coffee from a Starbuck’s that definitely hadn’t been there when he left. They’re pastry section was shit but the little barista told him that was because no bought pastries from them, they all bought them from Sweetie’s Treats.

A place Eddie steadfastly refused to enter after his last encounter.

He let out a sigh and bought a pathetic little croissant, munching on the dry thing as he made his way to the bank.

It was going to be a long day. He could feel it in his bones.

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #rom com au

71 notes · View notes

gabessquishytum · 2 days

Note

So there’s this manhwa called Match Made in Bed (no happy ending for the main couple I’m afraid but the premise is very dreamling-coded) where basically this woman is recently dumped because of how stiff she is during sex so her friends decide to hire some hosts to cheer her up. Among the hosts is this one guy who’s actually a swim instructor doing a favor for his friend but he’s actually really reserved and haughty (sound familiar?) and kind of looks down on the whole practice of escorting. Eventually the woman gets hammered and he ends up taking her to a hotel room where she entices him into sleeping with her to prove she can be a good lay and surprise surprise, their sexual compatibility is off the charts and they have sex nine times. But afterwards they don’t know how to move forward because she can’t imagine dating a host (even tho he’s not) and he can’t stand rich women who go around flaunting their money and hiring escorts (she was lying about her job as a stewardess too). But at the same time, they can’t keep their hands off each other. And so, shenanigans and misunderstandings ensue. I can totally imagine Hob and Dream in this scenario where they keep saying tonight will be the last night but then in a turn of events they keep running into each other like it’s fate, like Hob unknowingly signing up for Dream’s swim class, and who can resist a good fuck? Hob has literally never met someone who can make him cum so many times before and Dream has never had so many wet dreams. And it’s good for both of them. They’re both getting better sleep and relieving so much stress. I imagine eventually one of them will get their act together and come clean about their true job so they can finally be happy and fuck without anything holding them back.

I am now extremely obsessed with the concept of host!Dream. Or how about, Desire is actually the host, but for some reason they've persuaded Dream to fill in for them! Probably so they can have a vacation, lol. Anyway: host!Dream.

Hob is super intimidated by the gorgeous hosts that Jo organised for him, and he ends up drinking waaayy too much. He's pretty sure that the gorgeous guy with the blue eyes is actually disgusted by him (Dream is just struggling to keep smiling for hours and hours 😭) and it makes Hob feel so discouraged. When the pretty guy escorts him to the hotel room, Hob doesn't even mean to seduce him - he literally stumbled and fell into Dream’s arms. The kiss that followed just felt natural. And after that... Well. Hob usually hates drunk sex but with Dream, he feels... incredible. He doesn't even feel intoxicated. He just feels like he's floating, encased in a shroud of total pleasure.

Dream doesn't even know why he slept with the sad drunk guy, but. Even he has to admit that it was amazing. Hob might be awkward and dumb, but his body is everything Dream has ever wanted. He can hardly believe that it wasn't all just an amazing fantasy, but sure enough he wakes up with Hob the next day. And Dream IMMEDIATELY leaves. He doesn't like rich finance guys (Hob lied about his job, he's actually a teacher) and it's not like this host gig is even HIS job.

Hob wakes up alone, feeling physically amazing but emotionally devastated. Even though he's probably too jealous to handle dating a host, he can't help wishing that Dream stayed. At least for a morning blow job...

Of course the universe brings them right back together. Hob promised that he would finally learn to swim this year; Dream turns out to be his instructor. They fuck down in the shallow end of the pool after Hob learns to float (who needs to swim when you can cling onto a sexy man while he fucks you?), Dream shows up to pick his nephew up from school and runs in to Hob as he comes out from teaching a class. They don't have time to do anything but make out messily in a supply cupboard, but it's still incredible...

They still refuse to talk about their obvious perfect physical compatability. Hob still believes that Dream isn't really into him. Dream still can't pluck up the courage to actually speak to him. Every other week they end up in some kind of compromising position - Dream has memorised all the little scars on Hob’s body, and he's kissed every single one of them. Hob can't get off by himself anymore, not without Dream inside him.

The only consolation: Desire is back from vacation, soon. If anyone can get the idiots together, they can. But Desire isn't always inclined to be helpful... and they might just make everything worse!

#the sandman #dreamling #nsft

84 notes · View notes

haikyu-mp4 · 13 hours

Note

Heyo 🌟 congratulations on your milestone! 🐳 done!

I am hereby applying with Osamu, I am organised and driven 🫡

heya!! thank you 🍓 much! you are hired for our shared love of a café setting<3

Cookies and cream

Osamu is a customer and orders something just to talk to you, for the now hiring! event

word count; 884 – f!reader

A new café recently opened across the street, and Osamu shamelessly spent at least 15 minutes of each day standing close to the windows of Onigiri Miya to observe. You had a consistent flow of customers and seemed to have more busy hours than he had. He was very interested in your menu, the design of the café, the workers… maybe just one worker in particular, the one who smiled so nicely that he imagined you were the reason so many people kept coming back to order from you. He hadn’t heard your voice yet, but he definitely imagined it, telling your customers to never go buy from Onigiri Miya and hypnotising them with your charm.

Atsumu could not understand why his brother had developed such an obsession with a simple café when his own business was showing better results every month and your businesses were so different that it didn’t have to be a competition. Competitiveness was nothing new, but this wasn’t the first time a new shop of any sort opened close by. It’s Japan; there were several places to order food or coffee on every street.

He couldn’t understand it until he visited to see what it was all about, and he caught his brother only staring over there while you were visible at the register or out in the café clearing tables. Is he witnessing a one-sided enemies to lovers or is his brother just in denial of his attraction to you?

“So ya got the hots for the café owner, huh?” he teased, bumping his elbow into Osamu as he came to stand beside him. Osamu frowned.

“How do ya know she’s the owner?” he asked, looking back over to where you held a tray of empty cups while chatting with two students who had been there for a few hours.

“Went there to scope the competition before I came here,“ he answered proudly. “Had a bangin’ iced coffee. Cookies and cream and I swear she put extra cookie crumbles-” Part of Osamu was grateful that his brother got invested in his battles, but the bigger part was annoyed that he had yet to taste anything you made.

Atsumu just needed to get Osamu a little jealous and he’d walk right into his trap.

On his break, while the new hire did their first cover alone, Osamu had no choice but to stroll across the street and confidently enter your café. The comforting smell immediately hit him, and it was only enhanced by the warmth of the lighting and the nice temperature. His eyes scanned over the café tables while he slowly made his way towards the register. And as he got there, he finally looked forward. Any threatening introduction he might have prepared was ruined when you smiled at him.

You leaned your hands on the counter on each side of the register, leaning closer to him curiously. “Hey, weren’t you blonde earlier?”

You were mostly teasing because even though you thought he looked very similar, you knew they must be two different people. This one piqued your attention differently, and the one that had been staring at you through the window was not blonde.

“Don’t insult me, that was my brother. I’m Miya Osamu,” he introduced himself, holding out a hand for a handshake. “I own Onigiri Miya across the street.”

Maybe it was the way his arms bulged under his t-shirt. Or the way his brown hair complemented his eyes and made them warmer like you should have picked that shade of brown for the accent wall instead. Or the way he had slight dips into the fat of his stomach where the apron was tied. He was just so insanely attractive to you.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, I’ve been dying to try your food,” you said, smiling and shaking his hand while you told him your name. “Did you want to order something?”

Osamu had intended on being quite cold towards you, show you who’s boss…

“My brother recommended something with cookies and cream?” he instead requested politely with a little smile, hoping you might put even more cookie crumbs on his.

“I’m glad it left a good impression.”

He knew he should get back to put out the fires his new hire might have caused, so after sticking around and talking to (flirting with) you for a while, he sighed and pushed his hip off the counter he leaned against.

“Why don’t you come over some time, I’ll make sure you get our best,” he said, picking a slightly bent business card out of the pocket of his apron and handing it to you. He might have scribbled his personal number on the back ahead of time.

His stomach did flips as he watched your cheeks turn rosy when you took the piece of paper. “Doesn’t every customer get your best?”

“The special ones get a little extra love,” he answered, pulse quickening at his own forwardness. Now that he felt more comfortable, his smile was even wider and it felt like your legs turned to jelly.

“I’ll see if I can bless you with my time,” you joked, a soft chuckle escaping with it because obviously, you would be hitting him up on that offer.

“And I’ll look forward to it.”

masterlist

#now hiring! event #haikyu #haikyuu #haikyu x reader #haikyuu x reader #fanfiction #hq #hq x reader #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x you #haikyu fluff #miya osamu x reader #miya osamu #osamu #osamu miya #osamu x reader #atsumu miya #miya atsumu

77 notes · View notes

calaisreno · 3 days

Text

Classified

It’s Schrödinger’s wedding.

1952 Words / Prompt: Jealousy

We’re sitting among the boxes of invitations, the venue’s brochures, and several dozen napkins folded into Sydney Opera Houses. John looks exhausted, and now that Mary’s gone home, I’ve suggested a break.

I pour John a glass of scotch and hand it to him, struggling for the right words to open this discussion. If I’m not careful, it could end badly.

Sinking into my chair, I simply say, “Don’t.”

John swallows a mouthful of whisky. “Don’t what?”

He looks confused. Of course. I’m terrible at this. Sentiment, feelings, honesty.

“Don’t… marry her.”

John sighs. “Sherlock.”

“Please, John. Just don’t.”

Confusion has given way to stubbornness, and of all people, John Watson is the most stubborn person I’ve ever known. It’s hopeless, ridiculous that I even brought this up. But it has to be said.

That night at the Landmark, when John was trying to strangle me, I promised myself that I would stop lying to him. Stop shading the truth. Just be honest. Who deserves the truth more than John, who grieved for two years, thinking his best friend was dead?

Best friend. More than I ever expected to have from this stubborn, loyal, surprising man who has always followed me, even after I broke his heart. He deserves the truth.

And I deserve nothing. But I can’t let the man I love be hurt again, even if it means… well, I hope this won’t be our last conversation.

“What is this about?” John’s face wears that dogged expression.

“I love you,” I begin. “And I’ve hurt you too much to pretend this is fine.”

John’s eyes widen, then narrow. “You love me. What am I supposed to do with that?”

“You called me your best friend. I don’t care what you make of it—“

“You don’t do feelings. Married to your work, grit on the lens—“

“You’re not the only one who’s grieved, John. Yes, I do have feelings. And I would be prepared to set them aside, to accept that I do not deserve your love, but I owe you the truth.”

“You love me.”

It’s bad enough that John seems to be stuck on you love me. That isn’t even the point right now. (Note to self: next time, lead with your wife-to-be is probably an assassin.)

“Yes. Which is why I’m about to tell you the last thing you want to hear right now.”

“I’m about to get married, Sherlock! Why are you doing this now— you’ve never given me the tiniest clue that you even considered me a friend. I don’t have friends. Remember that? What is this— are you jealous? Is that what this is about?”

I’m terrible at this. I’ve vowed to be honest, not to keep John in the dark all the time, and all John is taking from this is that I’m jealous.

I try again. “You’re about to marry a woman you don’t know. A woman who is lying to you.”

Now John’s wearing his isn’t this ironic face. “Oh, well, I suppose I should be used to people who love me lying to me! You’ve given me plenty of practice, you know.”

“I realise my apology for that is inadequate. I understand that you will never return my feelings, and I will live with that. I’m not jealous. Marry whomever you want, John— just not her. She’s not who she claims to be. I’m telling you this because I believe you’re in danger.”

“All right, then.” Still angry, but also curious. “Tell me. Who is she?”

“I don’t know yet. I do know that she’s not Mary Morstan, who was stillborn in 1972 and buried in Chiswick Cemetery. The night I met her, I deduced that she’s hiding something, so I went to Mycroft. While I was gone, he was supposed to keep an eye on you because we believed Moriarty’s organisation might still take action against you. When I realised that she was not who she said she was, I gave him an earful for letting an unknown close to you.”

“And what did he say?”

“Nothing. He wouldn’t tell me anything about her. Classified. Which tells me most of what I needed to know. He knows exactly who she is, which suggests that she’s an agent of some sort, probably freelance. She may have done work for the British government, which would be how he knew her.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re an agent of the government, I believe. Don’t even try telling me you weren’t working for your brother these past two years. Maybe she doesn’t have clearance to tell me what kind of work she did.”

“But she hasn’t even mentioned it, has she? She told you she’s a nurse. And she’s using a name that’s not her own. You’re marrying her, John— the fact that she’s assumed a false identity—“

“—means that she’s in some sort of witness protection. That she doesn’t have clearance to tell anyone.“ Annoyed, but not in denial. Uncomfortable now that he’s thinking about it.

“Mycroft would have said if that were the case. And he would have threatened me to keep my hands off. The fact that he’s said nothing means that she’s part of an active investigation. And most likely not currently working for the British government. If she were, he would have said.”

John is silent.

“Ignorance is not bliss, John. You made that point quite forcefully the night I returned.”

“She’s active?” He looks dazed.

“Mycroft wouldn’t say. But it’s not the kind of work anyone actually leaves behind.”

“And you’re telling me this now? You couldn’t have said sooner? Christ, we’ve started planning the wedding!” Angry again.

“I wasn’t sure. I’m more certain now, though.”

John has reached his limit. “I… I’ve got to go. I can’t deal with this now. Just… I’m going.” He grabs his coat, stuffs his arms in the sleeves, and marches out the door.

… (Continues below cut)

I return from buying milk (I really must be losing my mind if I’m going to the shops, but tea requires milk and sugar and Mrs Hudson is still showing her displeasure at my inexplicable return by not running errands for me) and find Mycroft sitting in my chair. He knows, of course, which chair is mine and which is John’s, and is making a statement whose meaning I can guess. Power dynamics: my chair.

Considering who’s paid the rent for the last two years, it actually is Mycroft’s chair. I make tea, hand a mug to Mycroft, and sit in John’s chair.

“Well, brother.” He gives me an appraising look.

I’m used to the evaluation; it happens every time I see my brother, that once-over to determine if (a) I’ve relapsed, (b) I’ve done something else Mycroft will regret, or c) I’m about to lie about something not covered under (a) or (b). The best way to side-track this is to get on his nerves.

“This is about John, isn’t it?” I blow on my tea. “Otherwise you would have called.”

“He came to see me yesterday, directly from seeing you. Asking what I knew about Mary Morstan. Now, where did he get the idea that she’d been lying to him, if not from you?”

“You didn’t swear me to silence.”

Mycroft sips his tea, but says nothing. He’s very good at keeping his own counsel.

“I asked him not to marry her,” I say. “I don’t have any real proof, other than what I told him, but reasoned that it would be better not to leave it until the last moment. I’m wondering, though, why you were willing to let it happen. You let her close to John, when it’s obvious she was planted in his surgery because of me.”

Mycroft smirks. “You don’t think it was Dr Watson’s charms that drew her to him?”

“Mary Morstan isn’t like the others. Who is she working for?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you can guess.”

“I’m not giving you an unfounded hypothesis, Sherlock. The matter is still classified.” He shifts in his seat, watching me, then relents a bit. “You’re not wrong about her. But we cannot afford to tip her off yet. The marriage will be invalid, of course.”

(Note to self: Kill Mycroft.)

“This should never have happened. John is not a chess piece, a thing to be sacrificed for your game. Now, go away. I don’t want to talk to you until you can give me some answers.”

Without a word, Mycroft stands, tucks his umbrella under his arm, glares at me, and leaves.

…

It’s night, and I’m walking. No particular destination, just around the park until I’m too tired to walk further.

When I finally open the door of 221B, John is sitting on the stairs.

He looks up at me, but doesn’t speak. And for once, I can’t read his look. Either he’s said something to Mary, or he hasn’t. She’s lied to him, or she’s told him the truth. He’s forgiven her or he’s broken it off.

It’s Schrödinger’s wedding.

I hang my coat by the door. He still hasn’t spoken, but budges over to make room for me.

“You said you love me.”

“Yes.”

“You promised not to lie.”

“I’m not lying. I do love you.”

“I mean, about Mary.”

“I spoke with Mycroft. She’s part of an active investigation, as I guessed. He wouldn’t give me details.”

“Jesus. And you love me.”

I feel his eyes on me, but say nothing. Either he accepts it, or he doesn’t.

“You told me you were married to your work. That’s a pretty clear signal you weren’t interested. Why did you say that?”

“Because I was a coward. And soon you were dating women, which was also a clear signal, and there wasn’t any point in bringing it up again.”

“When you say love, what do you mean?”

“I want you to be happy. If that’s with someone other than me, fine. But someone who’s lying to you cannot make you happy.”

He leans closer, his shoulder against mine. “And what would make you happy? If you could have anything you want?”

“A locked room triple homicide, no murder weapon.”

He gives a low chuckle. “Idiot. I mean, what do you want from me?”

“Whatever you’ll give me. I’m prepared to be your friend for life, if that’s what you want.”

“Nothing more? Just friends? Not romantic?”

No lies, not now. “Yes, I want more. I want you to live here, to sleep in my bed, yes— with all that entails. To never leave me. But I will take what I can—”

“Yes. All of it.”

It’s my turn to be silent.

He rubs his eyes. Sleepless night. “I told her I couldn’t marry her. You’d best let Mycroft know if he’s trying to suss her out. She’s already packing her bags.”

“Did she tell you what she is?”

“I didn’t ask. I just told her I was in love with you.”

I feel as if I’ve been punched in the gut. No, I feel like what I imagine when I think of kissing John. Breathless, heart-pounding.

“Are you in love with me?”

“I thought you knew.” He smiles, takes my hand in his own. “Yes, I am.”

My voice shakes. “And what did she say?”

“She already knew.” His smile broadening, John leans in.

The kiss is better than any I could imagine.

He doesn’t let go when it ends. “So, if I’d decided to marry her anyway…” He grins. “What was your plan for that?”

The truth. I promised. “I was going to kidnap you.”

He gives me a smouldering look. “You could still do that.”

(Note to self: I’m going to have to get used to John Watson’s love language.)

...

Read/comment on AO3

#mayprompts2024

97 notes · View notes

livelaughlovesubs · 2 days

Note

i want to dom and make levi submit so fuckin badddd. Like he's so fuckin pretty i want to make him obsessed with me and make him crawl and leave his goddamn pride just to get a taste of my touch. He's easily jealous and I'd take that advantage.

I have satan and mammon by my side so i know that he cant really kill me since the kings would protect me (also beel and the rest of the demons). But anyway.

Giving mammon and satan praises and affection infront of him, teasing him sayin things like "oh? Well mammon is obedient and he calls me master. He's such a good boy he deserves my attention." Or "satan is a cutie. He's a good boy even though he acts all though he's actually really caring towards me and always protects me. He's a good boy in bed too just like mammon." That'd get him fummin and would try to one up those two and you'd be surprised how much he'll do to get what he wants (in this case your attention)

Totally understand, I really do. Tbh I’m pretty neutral when it comes to the devils, I only like (in the sense of wanting to jump into bed) a handful of them, but flirting or praising others in front of him just to get on his nerves ughh

If he dared to touch me or hang me, hell nah, I’d be ignoring him for weeks. That man is so masochistic, I won’t hit him, I’ll just leave. Fuck his mental state, I like my (fictional) men screwed in the head. Honestly, he will declare war on the other nations if you preferred them, heck, even if you just praised them. He would definitely kidnap you, and I swear to god if he did that to me I won’t just stay put I’ll make his life worse than when he was a kid.

In case it wasn’t obvious enough, I love Levi, I do like him. I like men who are horrible and pathetic enough that you have a good reason to beat the shit out of them.

#nini!rant #I must sound so morally corrupt right now #whb #what in hell is bad #what in hell is bad levi #whb levi #leviathan whb #leviathan what in hell is bad #what in hell is bad leviathan #whb leviathan

36 notes · View notes

ironunderstands · 3 days

Note

What if Ratio isn’t just some guy but a spy for another faction, like maybe he is part of the masked fools or another faction? How betrayed would Topaz and Aventurine feel that they’re friend isn’t who he said he was? That Ratio was just playing a role to gather information.

Or even worse if Dr. Ratio was Oswaldo right hand man, sent to disrupt and spy on the ten stonehearts and in doing so seduces two to make Diamond jealous and distracted. Like Oswaldo main competitor is Diamond and maybe he sent Ratio to keep track of the stonehearts movement?

I think I would die horrifically in a fire but that would also be incredibly compelling so I don’t hate it either.

Oh Ratio being a spy, oh Ratio being a betrayer, that would hurt so bad because he’s presented as someone who cares sososo much and to have that just be a lie? Ugh I hate it just as much as I love it

Imagine the look on Aventurine’s face as the person closest to him turned out to be a spy all along

The person who gave him a reason to live having never cared in the first place

Now that’s all well and good and I’m not lying when I say I would never recover from that, but imagine this

It’s a double cross

You still get the betrayal, the devastation, but Ratio has always been good at playing the fool. He did it at the space station, he did it in Penacony, and he’s doing it now.

He almost gives up, seeing how broken the other two look, but Ratio is playing the long run and everyone is none the wiser.

So they win, and Oswaldo is gone for good, Ratio gets injured, and is backed into a corner by both Aventurine, Topaz, and the astral express, and they are about to demand answers and/or even kill him.

Aventurine is the angriest, he grabs him by the shoulder and demands Ratio give him answers, give him anything.

He just smiles

And asks them who they think allowed them to be victorious in the first place?

Everything clicks, Ratio passes out and it all falls apart.

It will piece itself back together again, BUT GODDDDD GODDDD HOYO IF YOU DO THIS I WILL FORGIVE YOU FOR ALL YOUR SINS

PLEASE DO IT PLEASE DO IT PLEASE PLWASE PLWASE PLEASE PLS OKS PLS OLS PLSSSSS

40 notes · View notes

ghost-proofbaby · 2 days

Text

“I am not jealous,” she snaps, spinning around to face him. His hands fall away from her easily, his grip never having been very strong to begin with. “Oh, but you are.” “Fuck off, Astarion.”

summary: some tough conversations are had, some armor is discarded, and aruna gets jealous.

wc: 6.2k+

warnings: descriptions of pain due to a stab wound, miscommunication if we squint, description of blood (specifically staining clothing)

a/n: shout out to my beloved @hellfire--cult for helping me figure out some of the end dialogue. thank you for always listening to me ramble on and on about this fic even tho you're a gale girlie. i love you.

ao3 | masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

Aruna’s determination proves to not be for naught. She makes it back to camp, although a bit slowly, only tripping twice.

By the time they’re strolling back into what has now become their temporary home, the sun has set and everyone is exhausted. Shadowheart no longer looks to be on the verge of passing out, but Aruna knows she needs time to recover just as much as the wound in her side still does. As she watches Wyll guide their cleric back to her tent, all that guilt returns, gnawing viciously at her insides.

She almost misses the pain of being stabbed with the branch – that was less painful than this culpability.

“Take a seat,” Gale insists when he catches the way she’s merely standing and staring, putting a soft hand on Aruna’s shoulder that earns a warning sneer from Astarion, “She’ll be back soon with the healing potion, and then you need to rest.”

The last thing she really wants to do is rest, even if she knows she needs to. The persistent need to rest only makes her feel as though she’s failed them somehow.

“We should make a fire,” she says stiffly, eyes still locked on Shadowheart’s tent that she’s disappeared into, Wyll slowly making his way back over.

Gale nods, immediately getting to work once he waves a hand towards the makeshift bench once more, signaling for Aruna to sit. This time she listens against her better judgment, still flooded with the need to do something useful.

She should be the one making the fire to warm and dry them off. She was the one who had fallen foolishly into the river, who had gotten them into this mess.

It’s no surprise when Astarion quickly takes a seat beside her.

All that guilt continues to bubble up, and it’s the only reason that Aruna finds herself speaking to him, the overflow of it finally spilling out of her, “I’m sorry for worrying you. I didn’t mean to initiate the connection again.”

He only hums in response as he pulls one of his daggers out, flipping it absent-mindedly between his palms.

“We had it handled,” she continues on when he doesn’t offer a proper response, voice only shaking a little bit. She could pass it off as the cold getting to her, if anyone were to ask, “In all fairness. I’m sure that the current would have subsided eventually, or-”

The movement of his blade ceases, “You would call getting stabbed through your chest having it handled?”

The guilt pours out now, gushing faster than her wound had even when they’d first pulled the branch out of it, “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again – I assure you I’ve learned my lesson when it comes to running water.”

Astarion tilts his head back, a sour bark of laughter leaving him, “Yes, I’m sure you have.”

She assumes that’s all he has to say, but he surprises her, continuing on as he glares at the trees in the distance before them.

“Would you like to know the most startling part?” He’s angry. Absolutely livid. And yet, he still has yet to spark any fear in her, “It’s not the fact that you nearly got yourself killed again. No, that I can expect from you now. It was days of silence suddenly cut off by your voice in my head, prattling on about saving me,” Aruna freezes entirely, and not due to the temperature. He had heard her; he had heard all her vulnerable thoughts regarding the letter. “But even that I can disregard. I can handle playing the seeming role of a damsel in distress if the timing is right. What I cannot handle is to suddenly feel your lungs filling with water as though they were my own. What I couldn’t fathom was to feel as though I was the one stabbed, yet knowing it was you, and knowing I could do absolutely nothing about it.”

She’s dizzy again, and not from blood loss.

“You have seemingly made it your mission to make me... Make me…” he trails off, his hand gripping the hilt of his dagger so tightly that his impossibly pale skin has turned nearly translucent, “Make me care for your safety. You’ve managed to inexplicably tie your survival to mine. Do you truly think that if you died, any of them would hesitate to stake me for the first moment I opened my mouth?'' She opens her own mouth to answer, but he isn’t done, “Especially if any of them found out what I truly was. They would feed me to the wolves. I don’t understand why you haven’t, I don’t understand why you insist on trying to help me in some sick, twisted way,” he finally looks at her, and his gaze pierces right through her. She recalls the memory returned from her latest almost-death – the view of him bathed in golden sunlight, the brewing fondness that had resided in her chest at the mere sight of him. She recalls all his teasing and all his hidden softness, even when he was wearing a disguise for an unaware audience, “It’s become abundantly clear that if you die, I die. I’ve spent the last several days ruminating if it might be smarter for me to simply make a run for it now, to take my chances out there on my own, considering the way you number your days so effortlessly.”

She swallows hard, unsure of how exactly to respond to all of that. His words fuel the flames of guilt, taking their time as they sink into her psyche, leaving their mark with the utmost significance. He’s being honest – dreadfully, painfully honest.

And he’s right.

She recalls the way Gale had refused to hear her request to keep Astarion alive should she have fallen victim to her injuries. The way Shadowheart was so quick to snark back at Astarion with such hidden hatred. Even Wyll, the singing hero of their group, didn’t seem to care much for the pale elf.

The only one in their camp who seemed to have any vested interest in Astarion was Aruna.

Was it still due to the letter? Was it still due to some silly, ominous mission to save him?

“You saved me,” she whispers out, locking eyes with him, “With Nettie. You saved me before I ever knew of your… condition.”

He tilts his head, as though he’s speaking to a child, “And just how well do you think it would have bode for me if I were to return to camp without you? Just how do you believe they would have reacted if I returned only to inform them that our fearless leader had been poisoned, and I had done nothing about it?”

“It was more than that,” she snaps, growing a bit desperate, “Shadowheart told me how you acted while I was incapacitated. Bringing me back was enough to keep away their anger, Astarion. But you still insisted on protecting me, even once I was back here safely. Why are you so Hell-bent on protecting me?”

“Why are you so Hell-bent on saving me?”

Eight- no, nine words, and they effectively shut Aruna up. Her mouth snaps close, her heart all but stops.

Is she willing to lay it all out on the line for him? Is she truly willing to part with that letter in her pack, the one she isn’t even sure has survived the river?

“It’s… complicated,” she croaks out, realizing the answer was already there.

No. She’s not willing to. Her shoulders still aren’t strong enough to carry all the consequences that would come with showing Astarion the letter. He could be angry, he could be overly curious, he could have a magical answer that makes it all make sense – his reaction is entirely unpredictable at the end of the day, but would be more for Aruna to bear regardless.

When his head tilts ever so slightly this time, he’s no longer being condescending, but rather curious. As if lost in his own mind as he studies her in the silence before whispering, “I’m sure it is.”

It’s not patronizing, it’s not crude – it’s something sincere. As though he understands her. As if he gets it.

All at once, she’s nearly taking back her gut reaction. She’s nearly pouring it all out, letting the truth spill over the edges of her cup as she floods him with all that has been happening with her since the moment she woke up on that beach. It’s not just the shared memories from when he fed on her; she wants him to know about the letter, to know about the daggers with their peculiar symbols and of the time in which his voice had commanded her how to wield them. She wants to show him the stone she hadn’t paid much attention to as of recently, and she wants to know if the ring in her pouch is recognizable to him in any way. It’s the briefest flash of spontaneity, and she almost does it, because she almost sees the version of him from all those visions.

But she can’t. She knows she can’t, even without the thrashing of the thing inside of her that has determined this must all stay her dirty little secret.

“I should clean up,” she finally says to try and weasel her way out of the awkwardness at hand. The last thing she wants to do is attempt to peel her armor from the wound, but it has to be done at some point. Better to do it in water, where it might be easier.

Better to do that than let a slip of tongue ruin it all.

But when she rises off the log slowly, Astarion is following. “Allow me to help you-”

“No,” she doesn’t mean for the decline to come out so biting, but it stabs the air between them regardless. She clears her throat before she tries to continue in a softer tone, “Sorry, I just- I’ll be fine. I’m just going down to the river at the edge of camp, washing away the blood from the armor and all. I’m sure I can make it on my own.”

His eyes trail over her, almost amused, “Can you even remove your own armor right now?”

“Of course I can.”

“Reach your arms over your head for me, then.”

Damn him.

He knows she won’t be able to – the stretch would cause her too much pain, and it would prove she couldn’t handle the twisting of removing the leather that weighs her down without his help.

“Look, my dear,” he drawls, finally seeming more and more himself. His vulnerable confession feels like a distant memory already, and her head spins from the whiplash, “If you won’t allow me to help, at least allow me to keep an eye on you. It’s a bit soon for us to be trusting you around running water alone.”

She’s not winning this argument. She’d already lost it the moment he’d stood up with her.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” she grumbles, but she doesn’t put up any further protest.

He bites his tongue, corners of his mouth twitching with a smile, “Of course you don’t. Consider me a guard, then, rather than a babysitter.”

A guard. A shadow.

“I’d put up more of a fight,” she murmurs, catching the way the light of the fire dances across his skin. It reminds her of the recent memory – the fire’s reflection almost mimics the way the golden hour had encapsulated him in the mountains, but it’s the wrong shade. Too many shadows, too much darkness. Not enough light for the likes of him, she softly realizes, “But I’m sure even if I still decline, you’ll be lurking in the shadows, won’t you?”

His grin says it all.

“Allow me to gather up supplies, then,” he says, tone smug as he turns towards his tent.

Aruna nods for a moment, a bit lost in her thoughts, before she suddenly processes what he’s just said.

“Wait, what?”

—

Astarion is a hoarder. It’s the only explanation.

Supplies, as it turns out, was referring to his secret stash of soaps he had managed to snag from the Grove. Aruna tries to convince herself that he paid for them all, but she knows better.

Even if he’d sold every single useless item their entire group had gathered up thus far and sold it to the poor trader, he never would have accumulated enough gold for his collection.

“What scent is this one?” Aruna asks as she plucks yet another bar of soap from the bag he’d been keeping them all in. She could see an herb laced throughout it, peeking out through the cloudy white of the soap’s base.

Astarion glances over from the bag he’d picked up from Shadowheart before joining her on the beach, rummaging through the bandage supplies and healing potion the cleric had provided, “How am I to know? You could – oh, I don’t know – simply smell it yourself.”

They’re teasing each other again. They’re almost whoever they are in her memories.

Almost, almost, almost. Always a near perfect replica, but something is always just off with it all. Something is always missing.

She makes a show of doing exactly what he’d sarcastically suggested, bringing the soap close enough to catch the swirling undertones of eucalyptus and peppermint. Makes sense, given the conglomeration of small and sharp leaves mingling with longer, softer green ones.

“Who did you even nab these off of?” she questions as she tosses the fresh soap back into the cloth bag, digging around until she finds another one to examine. The new one is freckled with purple specks, and the waft of lavender hits her before she even holds it up in front of her face, “Nettie?”

“No,” Astarion laughs, finally pushing himself up out of the sand they’d dropped into, “Well, some of them. Ethel also had quite the collection. That woman is positively demented, by the way.”

“You told her everything about our affliction, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did.”

Aruna can’t help but let out a small laugh at that. She’s settled on using the lavender soap, deciding that it’s better than the stench of blood and mud that she currently reeks of.

It’s nice, being this way with Astarion. The night is almost as calm as it is whenever they escape to her hidden sanctuary in the forest overlooking the camp, the notes of the water gently lapping at the pebbles mere feet away only adding to the atmosphere. And although she can’t see the camp as clearly as she does from her boulder, she can certainly hear it better. She can hear the crackling of the fire, hear the occasional chatter amongst the other companions, hear the frequent barks of laughter that must belong to Karlach.

It’s nice. To exist not far from that world, only a wall of stone and shrubbery away, but still be alone with Astarion.

“Did she offer any cure to these damned tadpoles?” Aruna asks, clearly putting off the inevitable.

She’s dreading taking off the armor. She’s convinced herself that it’ll hurt even more than the initial stab did.

Astarion sees right through her distractions, holding a hand out as an offering to help her up. She wonders if he would have offered the same manners to anyone else back in camp, “Perhaps. And if she did, I’ll be more than all too eager to tell you all about it – after you’re no longer soaked in your own blood.”

“What?” She takes his hand, wincing despite her best efforts as he hauls her up beside him, “I thought if anyone would enjoy the smell of my bloody perfume, the resident vampire would.”

She’s already discarded her own leather pack to the sand, her boots placed neatly mere feet from it. But her armor, her garments – that’s what she’s avoiding taking off. Not even out of shyness, but out of fear.

Apparently, she can face bloodthirsty hordes of goblins and sleep soundly with a vicious vampire in the camp, but draws the line at the quick pain awaiting her.

“Even blood turns sour,” he says as he scrunches his nose up a bit for emphasis, “Besides, you reek of only Gods-know-what was in that river's depths.”

“Dead goblins,” she quickly replies, mind whirling with quick responses so that the conversation can continue rather than beginning the dreaded process, “It was definitely dead goblins.”

“Oh?” It’s not working. He can multitask, it seems. He lifts a finger and motions it for her to twirl in the air between them, “And did those ghastly things die by your fearsome sword?”

He’s teasing her mercilessly, and she’s grinning like a fool about it. She should be more upset with him after the days of radio silence, but it’s hard to do so when they’ve created this inexplicable bubble of safety.

She doesn’t turn, almost daring him as she snarks back, “My daring daggers, actually. You know me. An unstoppable force to be reckoned with.”

He realizes what she’s doing. His face is entirely unimpressed as he crosses his arms, not even offering her the ghost of a smile she’d been vying for.

“Aruna.”

“Astarion.”

“Turn around so we can get this damn armor off of you.”

“Have you always been so eager to see me nude? You know, maybe if you asked nicely-”

His cold hands come down on her shoulders with impeccable speed, a bit rough as he forces her to do as he had been asking the entire time, “Under any other circumstances, I might entertain you and your scandalous assumption.”

It should leave her uncomfortable, being put in such a vulnerable position. Her back is turned to him, her body following wherever his palms may guide her. She’s completely at his mercy, far too tired to fight back at this point, and she should be more worried to turn her back on a vampire.

She isn’t. It almost feels natural – there’s not a trace of fear as she feels his breath brush the back of her neck, his hands slowly lifting themselves away from her armored shoulders.

“You know,” she starts, swallowing the lump growing in her throat, a conglomeration of nerves and confusion. Her wound has gone to even throb preemptively for the pain she’s about to endure, “It feels an awful lot like our roles are reversed right now.”

“Are they?”

He sounds far away as his fingertips brush her back, toying with the lacing of her armor. A shiver runs up her spine, and it takes impeccable self-constraint to fight from letting it physically show to him.

“They are,” her voice is just as soft, nothing more than a whisper carried with the wind, “Usually you’re the one full of scandalous assumptions.”

“I’d hardly consider my assumptions scandalous,” his fingers have finally reached her lower back, where the lacing ends (or technically begins). He hesitates, halting all movements to the point of his fingers almost completely removing from her before he asks, “May I?”

She can’t answer him vocally. There’s no real, logical reason as to why she’s so fearful of facing this brief moment of pain. After all she’s gone through in their journeys, peeling armor off a wound is hardly something worth making her cower in indecision.

And maybe that’s exactly why she is.

For the first time in what must be a long time, Aruna is being presented with the illusion of a choice. She can choose to let him unlace her armor, to help her out of the layers clinging mercilessly to her wounded self, or she could choose to simply say no. And although she’s well aware if she gave a convincing absolutely not as her answer that Astarion would remove himself from her entirely, she’s also aware of just how inevitable it is.

The armor has to come off at some point. It’s going to hurt no matter what. But she’s tired, and she’s gone through so much pain already, and she’s brimming with childish petulance. She doesn’t want anymore pain. She doesn’t want any more confusion.

She doesn’t want any more adventure. Not with these tired bones, not with this sore skin.

“It’s going to hurt, isn’t it?” she finally whispers.

He doesn’t have to answer, they both know it’s rhetorical, but he does anyway, “Yes. But only for a moment, I’d assume.”

She lets out a dry scoff. He’d assume. “Moments add up, Astarion.”

Camp has gone quieter in the distance, and most of that teasing airiness from earlier has evaporated. Insects chirp in the distance as even the water begins to still. As though Nature herself had begun to listen in to their almost vulnerable moment.

It’s about more than the wound.

He finally sighs heavily, “Do you want me to be brutally honest, or would you rather be coddled?”

“If I wanted coddling, I would have requested Gale’s assistance.”

Now it’s him scoffing as his hands lift back to her shoulder, encouraging her to turn back around to face him, far more gentle than they had been when turning her away.

“It’s going to hurt regardless, Aruna. Whether you take off the armor now or in a tenday – it’s going to hurt. The little moments will still add up, regardless of if you give yourself the false hope of a break. It is simply unavoidable,” his earnest ruby eyes pour into hers as she stares into them, scanning for any trace of sincerity. Any trace of humanity, “If you leave it be for a few days, however, I guarantee the wound will end up infected. You could always take the healing potion from Shadowheart before you attempt this all, but the healing hurts just as badly, does it not?”

“Say it plainly,” she demands, still feeling a resistant trace of youth she can’t remember earning tugging at her heart, “Just call me a fool. Tell me to be a big girl and rip off the bandage.”

It’s about far more than the wound.

He hesitates at the worst possible moment. Humanity flashes in his eyes with the most terrible of timing, his facial expression softening with every passing second. For a moment, she almost thinks he won’t do it.

He comes through, though, just as she needs him to.

“Stop being a fool,” he says the words, almost mechanically, “Rip the bandage off.”

This time, she turns her back to him of her own volition.

His hands don’t hesitate to find the lacing once more, catching on quickly to her unspoken permission. He makes quick work of it, beginning with the bottom knot and working his way up the corset of the armor, loosening it up along her spine. Each stretch from his hands makes the leather cling to her body less intensely, allowing her more room to breathe, until she feels the armor begin to unstick from the wound.

It does hurt. Badly enough that her breath catches, but not nearly as badly as the initial stab had. Momentarily.

Once he’s removed the armor, tossing it carelessly into the sand near the rest of her belongings, she assumes his touch will leave her entirely. But it doesn’t. Through her thin undershirt, she feels his hand suddenly find the tight ends up her poorly done braids she’d been donning for a few days now – a feeble attempt to keep her hair out of the way during battles and traveling alike.

“What are you-” she begins to question, but she’s cut off by his shushing.

He gives a gentle tug to the left braid, clearly examining the twine she’d use to tie off the style. She can’t see his face, but she can picture the judgemental glance he gives as a tsk whistles from between his teeth just before his fingers also make quick work of that knot.

“Who has been braiding your hair?” he asks, his voice having returned to its normal pitch of cadence, high and mighty as he slowly begins to undo the braid. His knuckles brush her bare neck, and this time, she can’t hide any shivers that wreck her, “Actually, I’m not even sure if we can consider these braids, they’re so poorly done.”

She’s smiling, softly and timidly, as she responds, “Me.”

His unraveling pauses, “Excuse me?”

“I’m the one who braided my hair. Who else would it have been?”

She finally dares to twist and take a look at his face, only to find it contorted with an odd bemusement, “Dear Gods. Are you truly telling me you’re not only inadequate with your daggers, but also your hands when it comes to your own hair?”

She should probably be offended, and try to defend herself with the honest truth; she’s unfamiliar with this hair, with this body, to the point in which something as mundane as braiding her own hair has proven to be its own challenge. She’s still adjusting to the thickness of it, to figuring out the best way to keep the soft strands entrapped between her fingers as she had attempted to blindly navigate the weaving of three simple sections. It had honestly frustrated her for hours. The reminder of just how hopeless she still feels as she navigates the world feeling like a newborn babe, fragmented memories still not quite enough to let her make a home out of her own skin, her own hair.

And yet, she doesn’t. She only gives a joking shrug, that hurts only a little, as she grins, “It is a lot of hair, in all fairness.”

“It’s a simple braid, Aruna.”

He’s finished unraveling the first braid, her scalp singing with relief as the heavy locks of her hair fall against her back. She isn’t surprised when he repeats the process with the second braid as well, careful fingers separating three uneven strands until all tension of the make-shift hairdo has been discarded. The thick curtain of hair does little to protect her against the chill of the breeze rolling off the water beside them, but she’s not even focused on that.

All Aruna can think about is cold fingers meeting her skin in skittish motions, the waft of his breath across her ear as he would mindlessly lean in closer throughout the entirely innocent act.

If he were still living, breathing, radiating warmth, she has no doubt she’d feel it against her back. But his chill that runs off his body in waves only mingles with the night air, the smell of rosemary hardly breaking through the smell of her own dried blood.

“And just where exactly did you become an expert in braiding hair?” she finds herself blurting out, just barely noticing the way her eyes had fluttered shut at the feeling of his fingers in her hair. Her own curiosity begins to chew through her bones, and she can’t help but add on, “A lover, perhaps?”

Astarion snorts at that, his breath hitting the shell of her ear once more, “Are you asking me if I have a lover awaiting me back in Baldur’s Gate?”

“I-” she cuts off, voice choking up in her throat as Astarion catches her off guard – his fingers don’t leave her hair. Instead, now that the braids are undone, he’s meticulously raking them through the strands, gently detangling as he goes. Her entire body nearly shivers in response, “I suppose I am.”

“And if I say yes?” he drawls, fingers lifting back up to the roots of her hair, repeating the motion of brushing through, “Who’s to say I don’t have some poor soul weeping over my disappearance back in the city? Haunting all our old taverns, wailing about their long lost love?”

Aruna isn’t sure why, but the image he paints sparks something nasty in her gut. Something rabid and burning, viciously green and snarling as she attempts to tamper it down.

Is she jealous? She couldn’t possibly be jealous. Absolutely not.

But she can picture it so quickly – Astarion, backlit with a lively city, curled up in a dark corner of a tavern. A private booth, somewhere himself and his lover would call their own. She can picture it so perfectly. A graceful and poised hand falling on his shoulder, dangerous red lips brushing his jaw, someone’s stubble raking against his exposed throat and shivers causing his spine to shake just as hers has this entire interaction. A beautiful woman, a handsome man – it doesn’t matter which image is flickering in the space beside Astarion, it causes more of the hideous feeling to bubble up more ferociously.

Someone making Astarion smile that mischievous grin that puts the stars to shame. Someone making Astarion laugh with the melody that makes every possible song to ever be heard after fall flat. Someone, anyone, having Astarion that way. Knowing him that way.

Knowing him in the way she almost swears she might have known him, in all those dusty and unclear visions she’s been so unfortunately gifted with.

It’s not funny anymore.

“Then I’d say congratulations are in order,” Aruna finally replies flatly.

Astarion can sense her shift in mood, and his fingers leave her hair, “By all means, don’t hold back your enthusiasm, dear.”

She’s not jealous. She cannot possibly be jealous.

She isn’t yearning to see that charismatic smile now. She isn’t trying to formulate a punch line to elicit one of those reckless cackles from him. She isn’t.

But without his fingers in her hair, she’s suddenly picturing them in someone else’s, and it nearly crumples her. All she can see is green. Terrible, sickening green.

“Who says I’m not being enthusiastic?” she scowls, ready to pull out of his reach.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he’s speaking in nearly-slurring words, almost taunting her, and when she does move to take a step forward, his hands delicately fall onto her shoulders. Careful, calculated, gentle. “Perhaps it’s that pitiful tone, or perhaps it’s these very tense shoulders that have come out of nowhere,” He uses his hands on her as leverage, pulling her back microscopically as he steps forward. In an instant, her back is pressed to his chest, his lips brushing the lobe of her ear as he whispers, “Dare I say it seems that our dearest sorcerer is jealous?”

He’s said it outloud. She hates him, because he’s said it outloud.

“I am not jealous,” she snaps, spinning around to face him. His hands fall away from her easily, his grip never having been very strong to begin with.

“Oh, but you are.”

“Fuck off, Astarion.”

It’s clearly nothing more than a game to him. She can see it in his eyes, in the way the red glows to life as though she’s presenting him with the challenge of a lifetime.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, my dear,” he says in a lilting tone, head curiously tilting, “It’s a natural reaction to the possibility that someone as charming as myself may no longer be on the market.”

Aruna nearly grinds her teeth to dust, jaw tense as she narrows her eyes, “I’m not ashamed, because I’m not jealous.”

Oh, but she is, isn’t she? She’s terribly, terribly jealous, and it’s beginning to settle into her bones as she stops fighting down the feeling. Amethyst eyes have turned green, and her stomach bile is climbing up her throat at the insinuation Astarion has laid out before her.

Someone else feeling his fingers run through their hair, someone else feeling those cold lips graze their ears so precisely.

“Admit it,” he says firmly, eyes still alight with playfulness as he takes a step closer, dipping his face down closer to hers, “Just admit that it pains you to even think of the lovers I may have waiting for me back in the city.”

Those words stoke burning fires in her stomach, each one making her insides churn. Someone who isn’t her, curling up against his body. Someone who isn’t her, resting their head upon his shoulder.

“I can feel it, you know? Through those precious little brain fiends of ours,” he pauses, tapping a finger to his temple, a salacious grin spreading slowly across his features, “All those ugly emotions aren’t easily hidden.”

She doesn’t like this game. He may be enjoying himself, but every word is a weapon against her. It’s becoming something more than the image of him with someone else – it’s becoming a trigger to fantasizing about herself in those scenarios with Astarion.

His fingers running up her spine. His lips grazing along her neck and collar bones. The weight of his body against her through the night, both in images of him hovering over her as his hips meet hers in waves as well as the mundane – the innocent thought of sharing a bed with him, and nothing more. Sharing dark corners of taverns. Sharing snide remarks. Sharing the early mornings and the late afternoons with him.

She’s past jealousy. She’s yearning.

The realization slaps her in the face, sends her reeling a few steps backwards. Astarion watches in real time as the devastation crosses her features, all the surprise impossible to mask.

What does she do with that? Where did these thoughts even come from?

If the jealous feelings had been enough to fan the flames across the connection, the pathetic desires are enough to extinguish it all. Between her physical reaction and surely the way he felt that terrible need twisting inside her chest, Astarion’s playful expression melts away to something more serious.

When she flinches as he raises his hands back up, with mere intentions of laying them on her shoulders and nothing else, she swears she sees a flash of sorrow.

“Well,” he starts, appearing more awkward now than he has ever before with a curt clearing of his throat as his hands drop back to his sides, “I suppose my work here is done.”

The removal of her armor had hurt in a terrible sort of way, but nothing compares to the sting that had echoed in her chest at all the thoughts she’d just had of Astarion. Images of him with other strangers, images of him with her – they pierce her all the same and make the tear of leather from skin nothing more than a hollow ache she’s all but forgotten.

She hadn’t even noticed that some of the scabbing had broken away, and fresh blood was pooling to the surface of her skin.

He looks away from her quickly, eyes darting across her belongings laid out on the ground rather than her eyes. Anywhere but her. When she glances down, she can see the deep crimson that’s ruined the shirt entirely, bleeding out far past that just the circumference of the wound.

“There is no lover,” he finally says after spending so many moments silent that she had begun to wonder if he was even still there, right in front of her, just out of her vision as she focuses on the stain of the shirt.

“Excuse me?”

“I have no lover awaiting me in the city,” he clarifies as he finally stops diverting his glances from her, looking painfully earnest when she dares to glance back up, “I learned various hairstyles on- well, let’s simply say I’m not an only child, shall we?”

Aruna’s mouth falls agape, face softening at what he was insinuating.

Astarion, with a sister. Or any siblings. The image of him learning how to plait braids while sitting criss-cross behind a mirror image to himself. A softness he must only reserve to so few souls across Faerun, and most certainly family.

She’s been so caught up in learning of his vampiric past, of all the evil that is Cazador, that she’d never considered he had a life beyond those atrocities. Beyond cruel meals of rats and luring unsuspecting victims back to Cazador.

She hadn’t even considered the topic of a lover might be a sore one, given the entire situation with Cazador.

“You have siblings?” is all she can formulate in response, seemingly peering right into his soul for just a moment.

His forced smile is almost painful. More grimace than grin, “It’s complicated.”

Complicated? No, complicated was the inability to even remember a childhood, to even remember if one had siblings. Whatever Astarion was alluding to, he clearly remembers.

“What does that even mean-”

“Do you need any further assistance?” he motions to that ruined shirt still clinging to her body, changing the topic with a curtness that made Aruna only want to argue further. She wants to fight, she wants to pry her way into his mind if only for a moment. “Or shall I leave you to it?”

There’s so much she doesn’t know about him. Things the visions won’t reveal to her, nor will the man standing in front of her. He’s somehow toeing the line between tangibility and impalpability, and while it’s impressive, it feels like it’s killing her. She wants to know – she wants to see it all. Every single thing he’s hiding from her, every single thing that the torn shred of her within herself swears it knows.

She can’t say any of that, though. Instead, she can only pathetically whisper, “Will you stay with me?”

His nod does very little to lift the weight off her chest, to lessen the need, but it’s certainly a start.

taglist: @emmaisgonnacry @writinginthetwilight @moonmunson @generalstephkenobi @notthisagainpls @chaoticbardlady99 @animated-unicorn

if you'd like to join the taglist, simply let me know <3

#ghost's stories #astarion ancunin #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x oc #astarion fanfic #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #the moon will sing #baldur's gate 3 #yes they give me whiplash from how they go from serious conversations to lighthearted banter. that is the point #and yes astarion is lowkey being ooc for helping her. that's ALSO THE POINT I SWEAR #sort of edited for once <3

20 notes · View notes