“Get the fuck away from me,” you snarl, shoving the fronds aside as you struggle away from familiar smirk pursuing you.
“Come on, syulang. Don’t be like that.”
Aonung’s voice drifts after you, slow and sweet like honey, so goddamn effortless it makes you sick. He knows he’s got you either way.
“We were just talking,” you round on him, giving up on stalking away and letting the empty moonlight of the beach swallow you. “He was asking me about my beading-”
“Your beading?” his smile widens, reaching out for your wrist and spinning you lightly to study the glitter of your new top. “Really?”
“You’ve never asked me about my beading,” you narrow your eyes at him, hating the hot strength of his grip.
“Oh no, is this a competition? I’d be careful now. You wouldn’t want to make me jealous now, would you?”
“Jealous?” you scoff, tearing yourself free and turning back to him. “You passed that line when you punched him in the face.”
He doesn’t look abashed at all as you glare at him. If anything, he looks pleased you’re bothered enough to bring it up.
“Didn’t know you cared what I did, syulang.”
“Don’t call me that,” you snarl hotly. “You don’t get to call me that when you try to knock out every guy who so much breathes in my direction.”
“Looked like he wanted a lot more than breath from you.”
He doesn’t stagger back when you shove him away, just stepping lightly back an inch and watching as your fury blazes deeper. When you growl and make to turn away from him, he finally lets his stupid goddamn smirk drop, and leans back in to breach where he’s graced you a few moments of space.
“Not when he was looking at you,” he breathes, reaching out to force your head up to his. “Not when he was touching you.”
The rough heat of his hand brushes your waist, sliding down to the curve of your hips. He’s not gentle, and when he finally settles against your skin, his fingers curl deep enough into the soft flesh to leave little purple blossoms.
“So what if he was?” you attempt to crane your head free, but his grip drops to your neck and arrests you in his gaze.
“He should know better,” he says simply, that cold ocean blue scorching straight through you. “They all should.”
Thoughtlessly - because you’ve lost your mind somewhere between the sixth drink and the furious heat of having him go feral about you - you snap.
The hard palm of your hand sends a stinging crack echoing across the sand into the glittering ocean. He doesn’t even flinch as you draw back from his cheek. He just pulls you closer, his grip closing to strangle your wrist and send your pulse racing under his fingertips.
“Fucking brat,” he growls, tangling a hand in your hair and dragging your face inches from his. “So ungrateful.”
“For what?” you dare to breathe, choking on that terror you just can’t bring yourself to swallow. “What do you even for me?”
Fuck.
You should have been smarter. You should have known it would come to this; it always does. But logic and control have never stopped this, and tonight isn’t bring you the strength end this godforsaken addiction.
He crashes his lips onto yours. It’s nothing close to gentle or tentative. Tenderness is never on the table with the two of you. Not anymore.
It’s so crazed. Furious. The heat of it scalds your tongue as he swallows your rage and your hatred, tugging it out of you and tossing it somewhere so far all there's nothing close to the shy innocence you had before the break up left between you.
He’s angry too tonight. You can feel it as he consumes you, teeth grazing the swollen ache of your lips, tongue sliding headily against your own. You can taste it between the salt and liquor and desire. You can smell it on his skin, frothing beneath the painfully familiar warmth of campfire smoke and coconut.
“You reek of it,” you snarl against his lips. “Your envy.”
“Shut your mouth.”
He didn’t even need to tell you. His mouth finds that corner of your throat, where your pulse throbs against your collar, where he knows you could melt when touched, and your mind stalls so viscerally all you know is the hot press of his chest against your shoulders.
“Hypocrite.”
You can’t help but scoff. Not even when his hands find your ass and curl hungrily into the waiting flesh.
“I’m the hypocrite?”
“I can taste it,” Aonung growls, wrenching one of your legs up so he can pull your body flush against his. “Your hatred.”
He lets your leg drop. You hate the whine that’s forced out of you at the lost contact. You hate the moan when his fingers slide between your thighs instead.
“Do you really feel that?” he breathes, pressing through the hot fabric of your tewng and kissing you harder when you mewl. “Hatred?”
God, you can’t even breathe. The drink, the kiss, the familiar ghosting drag of his fingers over your clothed heat- it’s all slurring into something so dizzying you can’t think.
“Yes,” your mouth forces. “I hate you.”
It’s like he was waiting for you to say it. The snarl that rips from his throat has you flinching back, but there’s nowhere you can recoil where he won’t find you again.
“Say that again,” Aonung pushes you down to the sand. You make to protest, push him off and curse him out for getting you riled up to this again, but then his hands tear at your chest and the beads of your top are scattering everywhere. “Tell me you hate me.”
When the wet burn of his mouth licks up your breast and you choke hard enough to gasp for any relief, you find there’s no words waiting at your tongue.
The glinting points of his canines are bared as he grins. Trimphant.
God, you hate him.
You fucking hate him so much for doing this to you.
Again.
“Knew you can’t say it to me,” he grunts into the soft warmth of your breasts. “Not when you’re still so hungry for me. Not when you’re so- fuck- so wet for me.”
He groans at the slick heat meeting his fingers as he shoves past your tewng.
“Knew you couldn’t say no to me.”
You want to glare at him. You want to tell him to fuck off, to stop his mouth doing that thing that makes your muscles melt away, to get the hell out of your pants, but his fingers fumble with the sides of your last piece of clothing, and you can’t even open your eyes for a few moments without them rolling back.
“You’ll let me fuck you, right?”
Aonung spills the question like it’s already a given. It’s some concrete truth; you’ll always spread your legs and let him back in to paradise. You can’t help it.
His fingers slide through your hot slick and roll lightly over your clit.
“Come on, syulang,” he licks a hot stripe up across your pulse. “Use your words.”
“Yes,” you sob, feeling your face burn at the humiliating reminder of just how pathetic you are. “Yes!”
“Good.”
He slots his hips between your splayed ones, shoulders tensing hard enough to pull muscle as he caves and grinds against your heat.
“Fuck-” he groans, the sound heavenly enough to have you clenching around nothing. “So good for me.”
You can’t help your moan at his choked approval.
It makes you sick to think of a time where he would shower you with it when your skin was pressed so tightly together you never knew what was yours or his. There was once nights where he would leave no inch of your body un-worshipped, and you would drift off in the tight comfort of his adoration.
After the end, it felt like he was desecrating you.
Now, every single one of these kisses feels like some transgression to everything sweetly hellish. Each touch brands your weakness into the skin left sullied. There’s no faith here, only heady, addicting sin.
“Right?” Aonung forces your head back up to his, burning you with that blue gaze. “For me?”
You’re too far gone to hear the desperation in his voice. You’re too lost to see him searching you.
“Yes,” you whimper at the contact of his clothed bulge grinding against your bare slick.
“So wet.” He tears at his own loincloth and surrenders a low groan when he slides his throbbing erection through your waiting folds. “Are you always this wet?”
“For you,” you parrot desperately, rocking up against him for more friction.
He crashes back onto you at that, his reaction to your words so visceral you can feel the purr reeling through his flesh to yours. You meet him hungrily, starving, insatiable for that dizzying taste of him.
“Let me fuck you,” he pleads, grinding harder and forcing his lips to slow and form the words. “Just… I need to be inside you… fuck-”
“Yes,” you cry, face twisted in the effort it takes not to just roll him over and fuck yourself right onto his cock. “Please.”
His fingers close around the base of your head. You could die at the feeling of his fingers tangling in your hair, forcing your faces together and breathing right against your own forehead as he pushes into your desperate heat.
You’re dying now. You know it. You have to be, because being filled by him is always the heaven you spend each sober day yearning for.
Aonung moans lowly at your velvety warmth enveloping him. You’re so perfect for this, for sinking into and forgetting every duty and tenet expected of him, for crying out for him and locking him out of anything that isn’t you; your breath, your skin, your flesh, your scorching embrace.
“Taking me so well,” he whispers to your pulse. He doesn’t know if you hear him, but he has to sink his fangs into your neck to stop himself choking when you clench down on him.
When he bottoms out, when your face twists in agony at his stillness to let you adjust, when it’s finally time to pull out and he can hear your sweet whine at the sudden emptiness, he slams back in hard enough for your pretty little eyes to roll right back to black.
And he finds there’s nothing to care about anymore, and there’s not a single chance he can hold back everything fighting to be let out.
He moans unashamedly into your mouth, revelling in the breathy whines and cries he’s fucking out of you. That’s what this is. Fucking.
There’s no way it can be anything. Not anymore. There’s no tenderness or sweetness left in the two of you.
There’s only this. Desperate, animalistic carnality. Visceral. It could almost be called gore, because he feels like his insides might spill straight from the burning gash you left in him. The only thing that keeps him together is the tight press of your body, so close nothing can enter or escape between you except the mindless rutting of his hips and the roving heat of your hands.
This isn’t pretty or kind or nice or any of the mild, vanilla adjectives that equated stability.
Stability wasn’t for the two of you anymore.
You had no ground to stand on, only the sand carving out and around your bodies.
“I missed you.”
He could have almost missed your breath between his own grunts, but he feels your throat bob and when his gaze snaps open to you, he finds your face contorted in the familiar agony of shame.
“Oh yeah?” Aonung rocks deeper into you, burning up at the whine you gift him.
“Feels so good,” you mumble, eyes fluttering closes and never meeting his.
“That’s damn right,” he growls, bringing his hand back to the apex of your thighs and rubbing your throbbing clit.
“Ungh, yes. Only you can fuck me like this, ‘nung.”
God, that does it. That, and the pulsing clenches of your sweet heat around him, telling him you’re close.
He hasn’t heard you call him that since the night things ended, with your eyes so glossy and heartbroken he'd forgot how to even breathe. He’d never known how to hear his name without your lips smiling around it, your face crinkling with that soft joy you had at the sight of him.
Fuck.
He lets his head drop to your shoulder, his arms cradling you so close as he fucks you hard enough to show you two sets of starts above. He savours the sweet, sweet sound of you crying for him, the curve of your mouth as you moan his name.
He never knows when he’ll hear it again.
He knows it won’t be tomorrow when you wake in the unwelcome sun and sobriety. He knows it won’t be in the week you’ll avoid him after that, or the month where you despise him again after that.
And just as he’s beginning to feel sick at the thought of this being over and not feeling you all around him anymore, you come undone.
“Aonung. Aonung. Aonung.”
You breathe it like it’s air, sucking it in through your choked inhales as you fight to stop shaking under him. You expel it like it’s poison, never leaving your mouth as you exhale.
It’s suitable enough you’re squeezing him this tight; you’ve always been his vice. Still, he barely manages to hold himself together long enough to fuck you through your orgasm, rolling his hips into yours and catching your lips in a kiss hot enough to scald his own.
He would give anything to stay buried here where it’s so soft and warm and wet. He barely finds the strength to leave you, but he does, pulling out with an agonised hiss at the last moment and finishing all over your stomach.
You don’t realise he’s pulled out fast enough. He sees your lips open in a silent whine, like you were about to tell him to stay inside you, but then he sees that same hard steel he always does when you come down and you realise you hate him more than anything.
And then he feels it, that burning crush of shame and resentment that you always manage to push away for a a few glorious moments. That same pressure that settles every day over his shoulders, carved by the people that rely on him, on his parent’s careful expectations, through your averted gaze.
Aonung still reaches for you, desperate for the last seconds before you want nothing to do with him again.
He pulls you tight and close, using his tewng to wipe you clean and capturing your mouth in one final, lingering kiss.
This one is slower, filled with your lost breaths and the words he cannot find in his throat. This one is the hardest of them all, because he can feel your hands shaking as they rove over his face. He only stops when he starts tasting salt and the press of your cheeks against his grows wet.
He can’t bear to look at you once he pulls away. He can already hear your throat aching.
“Thanks for that,” he forces a smirk. “You always know how to treat me so good, syulang.”
Oh, he hates himself for you.
He’s sick as he pushes away, forcing himself to part from your warmth, unable to be there when the snarls inevitably return and you find the strength in you to tell him you do hate him.
He’s sick enough to want to peel the skin from his flesh, so sick of that crawling agony of knowing you can’t even stomach looking at him.
God, he’s sick enough to leave you there, alone in the moonlight, so horribly empty now, so sick with yourself you can’t do anything but stare as he turns his back on you.
You barely hold yourself together long enough for him to leave your eyeline. The moment the cold blue of his silhouette fades away, never turning back to you, you can’t help the dry sob wracking through your bones.
This is how it always ends; you ready to cry because he’s no good.
The hot tears had already been leaking down your cheeks; you know they had been the moment they soured the kiss and forced him away. You can’t do anything but curl into the sand and let your body melt away into the moonlight.
God, you hate yourself for him.
But it doesn’t matter. None of it does.
Not your stinging eyes or the hard ache of your throat. Not your cooling heat or your shaking hands. Not even the bare lines of your skin, burning in every place he touched you.
And even though you barely know what you had, it’s not that bad. All the fun you had.
Because, as much as it kills you, you know it’ll happen again.
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