Breaking the Tension — Droid x Reader
gn!reader, argument/angst, bilingual insults, makeup sex, rough/angry sex, multiple positions, intense emotional release
It started as a small disagreement—something about schedules, about time spent gaming versus time together. But what should have been a casual conversation spiraled fast. Neither of you backed down, words lashing out sharp and hot until the living room vibrated with anger. “You never listen!” you shouted, hands on your hips, fury knotting in your chest. “I’m tired of feeling like your last priority whenever you jump online with the guys.” Droid scoffed, running a hand through his hair, voice rising to match yours. “Oh, so I can’t enjoy my friends now, huh?” His tone dripped with sarcasm. “You’re acting fucking crazy—” He hesitated, then let something sharper slip under his breath, “Pinche terco/a,” he muttered in Spanish, glaring at you as if daring you to respond. Your eyes widened. He rarely pulled out Spanish insults on you. “Oh, I’m pinche terco/a now?” you threw back, deliberately using the same language. “Mira quién habla—look who’s talking! You always twist this shit back on me!” Each word spat from your lips like sparks, fury igniting every nerve. The argument escalated—shouting, name-calling, voices echoing off the walls. Both of you pacing, gesturing wildly. He called you stubborn again; you called him a selfish asshole. By the end of it, both of you were breathing hard, hands shaking, hearts pounding. You stormed off first, retreating to the bedroom and slamming the door behind you. He stayed in the living room, fuming quietly.
Hours passed. You could hear distant laughter through the door as he hopped onto a session with the guys, his tone forced but still managing jokes. You lay in bed, arms folded, still stewing. Slowly, as the adrenaline drained, weariness and regret settled in. Yeah, he said mean things, but so did you. You both took cheap shots. Now, under the dim glow of a bedside lamp, you stared at the ceiling, wondering if he’d stay mad forever. Eventually, silence fell. You caught the quiet creak of the bathroom door, the low hum of a shower turning on, then off. You guessed he’d be sleeping on the couch tonight, and part of you ached at the thought. Another part of you still simmered with resentment. Let him suffer, you thought, flipping onto your side. But not ten minutes later, you felt the mattress dip behind you. The scent of fresh soap and shampoo enveloped you. Droid slipped under the covers, not touching you at first, his body radiating warmth but leaving a careful space. You considered pushing him away or telling him to leave, but stayed silent, pretending to ignore him. Time dragged. You almost drifted off, but then he shifted. Slowly, he rolled closer. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. You stiffened, heart thudding. He tucked his face near your neck, breath soft, holding you like this was some delicate offering. For a moment, you considered shoving him off, still hurt. But the heat of his body and the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back soothed some raw nerve inside you.
Still, you said nothing, and neither did he. After what felt like another ten minutes of silence, he whispered, voice rough, “I’m sorry.” His hand moved up and down your side, a gentle stroke meant to calm. “I was a dick tonight. I shouldn’t have said what I said.” You swallowed, still facing away from him. “What you said was mean,” you replied softly, voice tight. “You really hurt me. It’s not just a stupid fight, Droid. You called me shit in Spanish, you blamed everything on me.” “I know,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to the back of your shoulder. “I know, and I’m sorry. It was the heat of the moment. I was pissed. I didn’t mean any of it.” You sighed, feeling tension coil in your belly. Could you trust that he was truly sorry? “How do I know you mean it?” you asked, voice small but still holding an edge. You were still angry, still unsure if you should let him off the hook. That’s when his hand changed course. Instead of a simple soothing rub, his touch became more insistent. His fingertips pressed more firmly, sliding down from your waist over the curve of your hip. You let out a sharp breath, surprised. His lips brushed your neck, warm and apologetic, and you could feel the way his body pressed closer, his desire uncoiling between you like a promise. “Let me show you,” he whispered, voice low, the kind of tone you only heard when he was desperate. “I know you’re mad. I know I messed up. Just let me make it up to you… please.” “Stop,” you murmured, half-heartedly, a strained protest.
But your body betrayed you, arching slightly into his touch. You wanted him to keep going. The night’s tension twisted into something hotter, darker, relief and anger and longing tangling together until you weren’t sure if you wanted to slap him or fuck him. He didn’t stop. Another kiss on your neck, teeth grazing your skin, making your breath hitch. His hand slipped under your shirt, palm warm against your stomach. The contrast of fury and lust set your nerves alight. You tried to sound resistant, whispering, “This doesn’t fix what you said,” but the catch in your voice told him you were weakening. “I know,” he admitted, voice husky. “But I want to try. Let me please you… let’s get this tension out.” His other hand slid down, gripping your thigh, urging your leg back around his hip. You could feel him growing hard against you, and you cursed under your breath, half angry, half aching for him. You twisted in his arms, rolling onto your back to face him. The lamp cast shadows across his face, showing genuine remorse in his eyes. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss. You bit his lower lip, half punishment, half invitation. He moaned softly, grinding against you, and you felt your fury melt into feral desire. “Don’t think this makes it all better,” you mumbled against his lips, fingers tangling in his damp hair. He smirked, a flash of humor and hunger. “I know,” he purred, sliding your shirt up, exposing your skin.
You sucked in a sharp breath as he lowered his head, kissing down your chest, hands deftly tugging off garments until you both were half-naked, breathless, and glaring at each other with something primal and raw. In that desperate haze, you pushed him onto his back, straddling him.
He watched you with hooded eyes, lips parted. “You’re still a jerk,” you hissed, rolling your hips, making him gasp. “A fucking asshole.” He groaned, gripping your waist. “Call me whatever you want,” he shot back, voice trembling, “just don’t stop.” The bed creaked as you rode him harder, frustration and need pouring out in each motion. His nails dug into your hips, leaving faint crescents, and you took delight in his whimpering moans. He deserved a bit of pain, a bit of rough handling. But soon he flipped you over, pressing you into the mattress, his mouth tracing hot lines along your neck. He slipped into you with a low grunt, and you cried out, nails scratching his shoulders. “Fuck,” you gasped, angry tears replaced by raw pleasure. He kissed you through it, each thrust shaking loose the night’s anger, turning rage into something desperate and fulfilling. You switched positions again. Missionary, where he pinned your wrists above your head, murmuring apologies between rough kisses. Doggy, where you pushed back against him, taking what you needed while he moaned your name into your shoulder. Off the edge of the bed, legs draped over his arms, him panting with effort, you biting back insults and moans. Finally, you climbed on top once more, hands braced on his chest, fucking him until his eyes rolled back and he begged to cum. “Please,” he whimpered, voice cracking as you slowed your pace, making him suffer deliciously. “I’m so sorry, just—please let me—”
You smirked down at him, loving how wrecked he looked. You wanted him to feel every ounce of regret for the cruel words he’d thrown at you earlier, but you also craved that final, shuddering release that would seal this truce between your bodies. Leaning down, you kissed him slowly. “Cum for me,” you whispered, voice hoarse, and he practically sobbed in relief. He bucked up, gasping, voice tearing at the edges with relief and pleasure. You followed him, crying out, your body shaking with the intensity of it. When it was over, the room smelled of sweat and sex. Both of you collapsed onto the sheets, breathing heavily, hearts pounding. Silence settled thick and sated. Eventually, he reached for your hand, lacing your fingers together. “I’m still sorry,” he said quietly, pressing a weary kiss to your knuckles. “I was a prick.” You sighed, muscles pleasantly sore, anger faded into a numb memory. “I know,” you admitted, voice soft. “Let’s not fight like that again.” He nodded, forehead against your shoulder. “Deal,” he said, voice barely audible. In the hush that followed, you felt lighter.