| Sore Loser |
Warning(s): Dacryphilia, El Classico rivalry, Madridista!Reader, mean bf!Pedri, m!dom, f!sub, pet names, hate sex, unprotected p-in-v, dick riding, allusions to blow job, slapping and spanking, body writing, pinching, taunting, licking, mind break. 18+
. . .
The crimson hue in your blurry eyes makes them burn as they glare into the smug hazels of your lover’s. Everything is on fire and the weight of the world and its contents is crashing down on you. You are suffocating and the clamped up position of your sex does nothing to aid the round and tight ball of pure suffocated tension in your chest.
The sting of pure humiliation seeps into the joints of your thighs, the base of your stomach, the ghastly tint of your tear stained cheeks and the tips of your fingers that curl around the strong shoulders of your lover. You're repulsed; hateful. Your hands long to even smack the smirk and taunting lulls right out of that dirty mouth of his.
But what do you actually do?
You ride, that's what.
Matter of fact, that's the only thing you're capable of doing in the present moment which holds you in a fucked and half-brainless state.
“Such a pretty girl, vida… The prettiest crier I've ever seen” Pedri, your forbidden lover but your only and most precious, cooes in that voice of his that is so full of hubris it makes you sick to your fucked guts even in this state. “Go ahead,” he lovingly soothes the inflamed prints of his strong hands that burn on your blushing ass as you repeatedly stomp it down on his strong and muscular thighs, the milky secretions of your sex tainting the colour of his dark blue shorts over and over. “Amor knows you want it” you hate it when he uses such endearments in moments like these when he knows how much you cannot stand him and his teasing on victory nights.
He tuts and tsks and an involuntary sob wrenches itself free from your hoarse throat. Yes, hoarse. Because that is the rule. On victory nights you welcome him home on your knees in your club’s jersey, the thick digits of the score written on your forehead and the Madrid flag and symbols painted on your embarrassed cheeks. He strokes the score of his triumph on your forehead with his thumb as he unloads his remaining stress down your throat while the insides of his hand warm up your pretty face and the backs of them soothe it.
You sob again in frustration because you try to stop but your body has developed a numb mind of its own where the only thing you can do is hold for support the shoulders of the very man you cannot bear to stand at the moment as you sink down on the veiny girth of his cock over and over. His proud chuckle shakes you to the very base of your spine because it makes you vibrate where your bodies are connected. Your thighs tremble and so do your arms.
But the deep, heavenly burn in your pussy hurts way too good.
“Tsk… your kind would do anything to dirty this jersey, huh?” His words nearly echo in your empty head as he clicks his tongue and holds his jersey up to examine it. Your tears have mixed with the white paint on your cheeks and dripped down onto the red and blue of his shirt in thick, cracked and chalky drops. “That's fine, I guess. You'll clean it up for your amor like a good little girl, won't you, cariño?” You do not burden yourself with any demonstrations of pride such as shaking your head or growling denials through your mouth that is drooling his cum.
He snickers and raises one amused brow, relaxed back onto the couch as he makes you do all the work.
Pedri is not one to enjoy your tears. Your rival clubs are in fact the only source of disagreement between the two of you. But on victory nights; the nights when he walks into the apartment buzzing with the adrenaline of triumph and pride, the man revels in the sight of your tears and savours every white-yellow-red drop that spoils the fabric of his kit.
And he absolutely hates you going quiet. Oh, no. The struggling and cursing and verbal denials are what keep him hard even after a post-game orgasm. He has won the game, what is a pouty little girl?
So his hands snake through the pearly silk of your jersey and his masculine fingers creep up your balmy skin, the difference in temperature between his digits and your tender flesh causing goosebumps to chase his touch that soon cages your sensitive and erect breasts in it.
“What was that? Huh? Did you say something, vida?” You glare at him as you gurgle on his cum in an effort to let out a moan when the tips of his trimmed nails close down onto your nipples and pinch them until he has you squealing like a little mouse in big trouble. “I am sorry, it's a little hard to understand you over the sound of sore loser” and his free hand pinches one of the petals of your pussy at the same moment so your back arches and you are forced to succumb to him just how your club had to tonight.
A black drop of sweat blurs the score that is presented on your forehead in big bold numbers and it trickles down the side of your head and mixes into the teary mess of the Madrid flag painting, the desperate shaking of your head only helping it traverse down faster as you shakily nod your head without stopping, the barrage of your orgasm only increasing the sounds of your gagged shouts. The last moment placement of one of his big hands over the mound of your pussy so his thumb can tickle your clit silly only aids his cause.
“YES! YES! GOD, YES! I WOULD LOVE TO! OF COURSE I WOULD–” and your chest crushes into a series of yet another squeal-sobs as you finally collapse atop him and shudder out broken ‘no’s because you just cannot do it anymore.
And so Pedri throws an arm around your back and pulls you closer before his tired yet much stronger hips fuck his cock up your trembling cavern, the sharp tip of his long tongue swaying past his lips to lick away at your tears.
. . .
It is going to be a long night indeed.
MASTERLIST
My brain took that first goal and RAN with it. Ps, this forbidden love kink of mine is gonna get me in big trouble one day lmfaooo
