#SHE CAN’T WRITE AND SHE HAS NOTHING TO SAY | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

musingsofheaven · 3 days ago

Note

Need more rough hate sex with Patrick and reader but very challengers coded like maybe she’s art girlfriend and can’t stand Patrick and Patrick hates her because he wants Art to himself but one day they’re at a party or somewhere, get into it and then fuck?? Maybe Art turns up to the party and is standing outside the door while Patrick’s fucking reader into the sink and whispering filth in her ears while her boyfriends outside saying could he fuck you like this, does he make you cum, like proper unhinged filth freaky shit choking, hair pulling, she could slap him, I want it ALL

Could lowkey see it being more parts because maybe Art then gets back at her and fucks the shit out of her and isn’t so submissive and she’s egging him on about Patrick because she wants to be fucked like that and he gives in? He’s acting like her talking about Patrick fucking her isn’t making Art harder and closer to cumming hehehe

SOMETHING BORROWED.

summary: Art’s your boyfriend and you’re his girl. Everyone knows that, and everyone knows Patrick is his best friend. The thing is: he hates you, and you can’t stand him either. It should have stayed that way, but there’s a party. The bathroom exists and you don’t know why you let it happen.

pairings: patrick zweig x afab!reader x art donaldson

warnings: 14.9k words. mature themes. dubious consent. unprotected p in v. creampie. oral sex. recording. voyeurism undertones. manipulation. gaslighting. cheating / infidelity. power imbalance / toxic dynamics. degradation kink / verbal humiliation. rough sex. breeding kink. overstimulation. alcohol use. read & consume responsibly.

note: hey, i really enjoyed writing this and i apologize for the slow writing especially with the requests and this is way back from may, but i hope the person who requested it is still around and will see this. <3 planning to release it last last week but got busy and sick. but here it is!

It's always been Art and Patrick.

It always has been and is always going to stay that way. Too young when they crossed each other’s paths. It got too close fast, as if something had just clicked inside. And ever since that meeting, nothing has changed because the bond is so strong. Growing up together since they’re barely teens. Maybe it’s around 12 or 13. They don't really care about the specifics and it doesn’t really matter not when they know they have each other’s backs regardless of their differences. People know Art is the quiet one. The perfectionist. The focus. The precise movements. Patrick is the opposite. The mess. The reckless swings. The egotistical maniac. Structure and chaos, but they still got paired for doubles, and they haven't changed partners ever since. Art was in control, posture perfect, and footwork clean. Patrick was reckless, grinning, never playing the same way twice. Together, they made sense- muscle and bone, strike and spark.

They roomed together and shared almost everything except their racquets: that’s too intimate to share. Both boys don’t really talk about feelings, not their stuff. But they know the technique, half-language insults, and language they only see when you live together for so long. Live together to the point he taught Art to jerk off and mutter about how he’s doing it all wrong before he talks him through it and they do it together. Art listened, of course; he came hard even, but it was something they never talked about after they did it. Every boundary crossed, every look that lasted too long. They weren’t dating, weren’t friends, something closer, something worse.

At fifteen, people already see them as a problem. Coaches hate them because they are intense. Hated how much they are in sync. Hated how dependent on each other. They can’t breathe right if the other isn’t on the court. They can’t hit the ball right without the other’s focus shining through the noise in the court. They fought like hell but never stayed mad where it mattered. It wasn’t romantic. No one else saw them like that. It was just them, just fire and ice. Just Patrick and Art.

But at some point, some moments, it nearly broke open. Something. Just something. Patrick shoved too hard, and Ary said his name too softly before someone muttered, “Jesus, just fuck already,” and neither of them flinched at that. But nothing happened, not really, because they needed each other too much. They just coexist. Patrick knew Art was always going to be a star. The biggest of them all. He knows that he’s going to self-destruct at some point. But they still keep playing. They pretend nothing would come between them because that’s how things work.

And then after the blink of an eye, there’s college. It’s still good. The first months of college were better than they should’ve been. Got closer. Still in rhythm, roommates, doubles partners, orbiting each other like nothing had shifted. Same pattern, different zip code, free- until it started to change. Of course, it will. Art didn’t just slip away instantly. No. It happened slowly. Quiet. Small lies at first. Leaving too quickly after a practice. Always have a reason like “group project” or “just tired.” Harmless lies for some people, except that Patrick knew Art’s schedule down to the hour. They share a calendar that syncs their schedules, but Art’s lies kept coming- not dramatic, just consistent, which somehow made it worse.

Then one night when Patrick was strolling around the campus, he saw something. It’s already late. The campus is already emptied out besides the people walking back wobbly with their drunkass selves and some are sneaking out of their dorms. Thank god there’s no curfew in their building. He feels the coldness on his skin as he walks near the court. The buildings were already dark except for this one court that was still shining brightly. He slipped inside because it was supposed to be closed by now. He’s walking silently until he sees you.

You were kneeling in the dark, and Art was leaning back to the door while his hand was in your hair. His mouth parted like he just won another match. Patrick can see the way he’s thrusting in your mouth. The way his hips are rolling shallow while you work him inside your mouth slowly and wet as if you like it. Art is not loud. Probably knows the risk of being caught in public. So he just whispered your name, saying please, soft like a prayer, fingers flexing like he was trying not to fuck your mouth too fast.

Patrick stood frozen, breath locked in his chest as you pulled off with a slick sound, licked the tip, then sank back down like you wanted to be caught. This is inappropriate to watch your best friend getting ahead. Sure, he already knows what Art’s cock looks like. But it’s not like he wants to watch his sex life in front of him. But he stayed too long, long enough for it to be a mistake, then left without a sound, carrying the image like something he wasn’t supposed to keep.

Patrick didn’t bring it up, waiting for Art to say something. Art didn’t. So Patrick snapped. It itched something inside of him, so it just happened after a doubles win, adrenaline buzzing when Art said he was heading out early. Patrick didn’t look at him, just said flatly, “Are you seeing someone?” Art blinked and looked at Patrick too quickly, so he asked, “What?” Patrick dropped his towel, jaw tight. “You’ve been flaking for weeks. Are you seeing someone or not?”

Art gave the weakest shrug Patrick had ever seen. “Yeah. I guess.” Patrick’s jaw twitched. “You guess? Are you going to tell me her name?” Art said your name, and that was it. The girl on her knees has a name now on his mind. Suddenly, the ghost in Art’s schedule had a face, a mouth, and a memory Patrick couldn’t scrub out since that night. Still, he didn’t say anything about the court, about the lie. He just let it sit tight.

A week later, Art brought you to the dorm. Patrick was at his desk, halfway through typing something he didn’t care about, when Art strolled in like there hadn’t been tension for weeks. “You’ve met Patrick, right? ”Art asked. You smiled softly, practiced, like nothing was wrong. Patrick didn’t smile back. “Not really,” he said, flatly. “Saw him in the courts though.” That was it, no scene, no confrontation.

But when Art turned to drop his bag, Patrick looked at you, and you looked right back, hoping for something, but no smile, just a flicker of recognition. It wasn’t kindness. Just fire and ice, the start of something neither of you could walk back from. After that, it didn’t get easier. You kept showing up, not because Patrick wanted you there. He didn’t, but because Art did, always texting, pulling you closer like he couldn’t regulate without you. He missed your perfume on his pillows, your warmth in his sheets, and your shape in his sweatshirt.

Sometimes it was just a sleepy selfie with the caption “Wish you were here,” and you came every time. Art started bringing you to practice, like you were some part of a ritual, sitting in the bleachers remembering everything Art forgot. Patrick noticed, and he had these looks. They were loud and cold. Sometimes you will just catch him eyeing you like he’s playing percentage tennis, waiting for you to fuck up. His looks are like some timer that counts the minutes you have until you leave.

You’ve been telling yourself it wasn’t personal. Art warned you that Patrick didn’t trust easily and didn’t click with people unless they proved themselves. So you tried, letting him ignore you at diners when Art dragged you both out, sitting across from him pretending his silence didn’t scrape your skin. You let him order his 10 p.m. pancakes without judgment and tried small talk about matches or the weather or whatever bullshit conversation that feels so awkward. His answers are always dismissive and laced with taunt or boredom. There was this one time you offered him the food you’re eating and ike an asshole person he is: he just looked at you like he’s disgusted at the idea of sharing before saying that he doesn't like getting food with people he doesn't know.

And after that? You didn’t try at all. But you are stubborn, so another time, you brought him coffee, not as a peace offering, just as an act of kindness. You set it on the desk, sealed, untouched. He didn’t look up. “What’d you do?” he asks, already assuming you are just here to ask something about Art. “What?” You just said before you look at him with that face you do when you're confused. “Don’t drink shit I didn’t pour myself.” Oh, so he's going the mean route again. “It’s sealed,” bored and assured even though you are so tired of it. “Then I don’t need it.” You should have just put poison in his drink when you knew he'd be like that.

What's annoying is he's always there. Always in the shadow of Art. Sometimes you will just catch him not wearing any shirt in the dorm and looking fresh out of the shower while he's pouring cereal and never saying good morning to you. It was worse because you always woke up first, Art’s arm heavy around your waist, warm against your back. You’d slide out quietly, hoping not to break the spell.

And every goddamn time, Patrick was already at the desk. Always. There. Jaw clenched, pretending not to notice you in Art’s t-shirt. You told yourself to let it go, to remember Patrick came first, that they had years, not weeks. You just have that thought in your mind that no matter how warm Art was, Patrick would always come before you. But it wore on you, the way Patrick didn’t just dislike you- he made you feel stupid for trying. And you hated that most.

And you didn't even mean to stay over that one night. You just kind of did. Something happened, and the something is Art acting so cute, so you just have to stay because he's already Art pulling a clean, warm shirt from his drawer for you to wear, looking at you like he missed you, like you hadn’t seen each other hours ago.

He just has this way of saying “stay” that will make your heart melt. You keep telling yourself it's okay because it's just Patrick. Just him. Lucky, right? If his roommate were another person, it would've been harder. You can even ignore him and not say hi or look. But this time he's already in his bed which is new because you are not used to seeing him already tucked in, and his limbs are hiding under the blanket. The room is okay and nothing has changed. You've been here many times.

Tonight it's just darker since Patrick went to bed earlier than usual and has that college-boy smell of detergent and sweat. There are twin beds, not side by side but close enough not to have any privacy. You sat on Art’s bed, pretending you belonged, telling yourself you’ll be just sleeping over. But it was after all lights are out that Art started touching you, his hand on your hip, sliding lower under the hem of his shirt on you.

His breath brushed your neck, palm flattening against your stomach, before slipping between your thighs. “Art,” you whispered, thin, hesitant, and careful. “He’s right there.” Your breath hitches when Art doesn’t stop. “And sleeping,” he murmured, pressing his body closer to you, “he’s not going to wake up, swear,” And you don't even know what that is supposed to mean right now especially his hand is already… going places. You really tried, brushing Art’s wrist like you could stop it before it got worse.

You sigh, insisting to him just to wait while he kisses your shoulder, and his hand cups your chest as he lines up behind you. “I don’t want to wait. I miss you,” he whispers. He’s quiet, but there’s seriousness and determination in his voice like the decision has been made. “Just be quiet.” Your thighs tensed, your lip caught between your teeth, and when he pushed in slowly, deep- you let him. You tried to keep your breathing shallow, tried to stay still, but it was too much, the way he rocked into you like you were something he earned. Your hand covered your mouth, head pressed into the mattress, just a few feet away from Patrick.

But he didn't react. Just staying still like a statue. He's not coughing. He's not moving around or rolling over. But you feel him. His presence. You feel his silence. You feel he's awake because it's your senses telling you that he's just pretending he's asleep while hearing every quiet sound of your slickness, every breath that you're holding back, but it slipped when Art found that deep, slow rhythm. You wondered if he heard the creak of the mattress under your hips, if he knew how wet you were, how shameless you’d gone for Art’s praise. When Art muttered, “Fuck, baby, you feel so good,” you didn’t hush him. You just took it slow, full thrusts dragging inside of you, his grip iron on your waist. Across the room, Patrick stayed silent, but you felt the heat of his attention even in the dark.

In the morning, you smiled at Patrick and said good morning like you hadn’t let his best friend fuck you while he pretended not to exist. And Patrick looked at you like he already had plans to make you regret it. After that, it got worse. Patrick didn’t start fights in front of Art or roll his eyes when there’s other people. He waited until Art left the room every time. One minute you’d be curled into Art’s side, and the next you’d feel it, that shift, that heavy quiet. Patrick would glance at you, scrolling on his phone, before dropping, “So you actually watch his matches now, or just the ones he wins?”

It was constant, the small cuts. The annoying one. That makes you want to punch him in the face, one. Late-night takeout when Patrick muttered, “Girls who can’t finish fries are more likely to cheat.” You stared, “What?” and he bit into his sandwich like he hadn’t said it on purpose. You tried to get ahead of it, asking about his matches and joking about his shoes. He shut it down every time. “Didn’t know I needed commentary from a cheerleader,” he’d say. Once, when you teased him for being late, he shot back, “Careful. You sound like someone who thinks she’s his coach and his girlfriend.”

The worst were the subtle ones. Passing you in the hall, muttering, “She reads now? God, he’s making a person out of you.” And Art kept smiling, kept pulling you closer, kept asking Patrick what he thought of you, and Patrick would shrug, “She’s fine,” which somehow hurt more than an insult. At parties, Patrick watched your face every time Art touched you, waiting for that flicker.

The first time you stepped onto the sand in Art’s hoodie and bikini, Patrick whistled, “You sure he’s the only one who gets to see that?” You rolled your eyes. “You’re disgusting.” He smirks at your insult at him, but he doesn't back down. “It’s a compliment.” Oh yeah, a compliment. What a nice one to name it. It’s fucking annoying that everything is just a joke. Always a joke to him. He never even tries to make it feel like a joke. Just make it hurt.

Because he's Patrick Zweig. He always makes you want to shoot his head. He would say something disgusting and dirty with a wink and provoke you until you felt a sick feeling in your stomach reacting. You tried showing Art you were uncomfortable, but Patrick was too quick. “She’s looking at me like she wants to fight,” he’d say lightly, and Art would laugh, “She’s all talk.”

So you’d swallow the heat in your cheeks, forced to laugh too, because what else could you do? Patrick would lean across the table, voice low, “Do you always wear gloss that is sticky, or just for him?” and you didn’t know if he wanted you to hate him or break first. It wasn’t immediate, that slow rot of it. At first, you were just Art’s girlfriend, tagging along, fading smiles, waiting through practice.

Patrick was just the roommate, the doubles partner with a jaw that never unclenched. You thought it was shyness. It wasn’t, not when he started with those glances that are too long and a shoulder bump that wasn’t friendly. Art didn’t notice, pulling you in with a laugh, saying, “You two are getting along now, huh?” You’d smile. Patrick wouldn’t, eyes pinned on you until your skin burned, pretending to listen to Art but never looking away.

You tried matching Art’s warmth, laughing when Patrick jokes, and asking polite questions. But every time, he punished you for trying. You asked if he liked your necklace. He didn’t look, just said, “Doesn’t seem like your style,” and walked away. You offered him gum in the car, and he took it, chewed, then said, “Tastes like lip gloss.” You rolled your eyes, and he grinned like it was all a game you were already losing. Then came the touches, small and deniable.

Under the table at dinner, his foot tapped your ankle- and stayed. When you moved, he followed. When you shifted, he shifted. Once, waiting for Art to change, Patrick brushed your hip as he passed. Not an accident, not casual, just enough to make you freeze before he kept walking like nothing happened. Then he got bolder. It happened during lunch months back when Art was so late and Patrick just stared at you. He's just staring at what you're doing while you can feel his knee contact with yours.

So you glare at him, I'm but his response to you is just to tilt his head and raise an eyebrow. “Relax. Art said you were friendly.” Later, he knocked your book off the arm just to make you bend. When you muttered, he smirked, “What? You’ve bent lower.” Your face went hot, throat tight, but he didn’t blink. Every time he stopped, the second Art walked back in. Like clockwork. Like he knew you’d never say anything- and liked it that way.

Art believed it all, the performances, the way Patrick would smirk and call you “princess” like a joke. The way he’d whistle when you wore something short before turning it into a compliment about “Art’s taste.” He knew how to turn it off the second Art looked, but you felt it every time. The way he leaned close, voice low, calling you by name like it tasted good. The way his hand lingered on your waist, your arm, that live-wire space between your ribs and hip. Art never saw it, not how Patrick always found a way to be alone with you.

Even if all Patrick said was, “Wearing perfume, or is that for Art?” Or grabbing your wrist a little too tight, muttering, “You don’t smell like someone who’s taken.” You hated him. Hated how good he was at being a dick in the most protected way. Hated how your face went hot when he looked at you like he knew something you didn’t want to admit. Hated how you could never tell if he wanted to mess with you- or if he already had.

And now here you are, in a frat house that’s massive in that old money and school legacy way. Hiding deep on campus, past the tennis courts, just there, arm enough that no one who’d care would notice. Finals over, music too loud, drinks too strong, strobe lights and smoke in every room. No one’s taking photos. No one’s snitching. Art’s hand finds your back the second you walk in, calm, guiding, no words needed. He belongs here, and so does Patrick.

Inside, it's limbs and liquor, beer pong and jungle juice, rooms pulsing with bass. Patrick’s there, leaning against the stair rail in a white tee, drink in hand, eyes dragging up your legs the second you walk in, but Art doesn’t notice. You do. You saw him watching you long enough to make you not surprised. A corner of the living room is claimed, drinks scattered, ash on the rug. Art sinks into the couch; you follow, his arm around your shoulders.

People you know sprawl around, someone on the floor, another perched on the armrest with a blunt. Patrick’s across from you, legs spread, drink on his thigh, watching, mouth twitching when your laugh softens. Someone passes a joint to Art, but he waves it off, Patrick taking it instead, smoke rolling slowly like a performance. “Didn’t know you were a lightweight,” Patrick says, and someone scoffs, “He’s boring when he’s in love.” Art pulls you closer, but your eyes are on the person who dares to say that. “Can’t risk losing my girl doing all of that shit.” Laughter, clinking cups, your face warm as you smile.

Patrick’s still watching. “Cute,” he says, flatly, and smirks a little at you when he sees that subtle reaction you made. “Bet she’s the type to throw up after one shot and still ask for another.” You don’t look at him because you know he'll just insult you. “Better than crying in a hallway ‘cause you lost pong,” so yeah, you know how to talk in front of him now without caring about who he is in Art’s life. Low “oooh” across the room, Art laughing, “She’s got a bite, huh? ”Patrick smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He sips his drink like it’s the last word but never stops looking at you.

You don’t even notice how packed the place has gotten, bodies everywhere, the air thick with weed, sweat, and something sugary. You’re on the couch between Art and a girl from the women’s team, skin warm, your skirt riding up, mesh top clinging, no bra, but you feel comfortable. Every time you lean forward, you feel Patrick’s gaze drag like teeth. Of course, he saw everything: Art’s hand on your back, your gloss fresh, your laugh bright, glowing like a star. And Patrick watches like he’s solving a problem that keeps smiling back.

Drink after drink, it's already past midnight, drinks are stronger, and the room is looser. Art’s warm, soft, leaning into you with a quiet murmur that makes the girl next to you giggle. You tuck closer, but his gaze is still there, flicking from your mouth to your lap to where Art’s hand keeps creeping higher. Art’s fingers slide beneath your skirt like he doesn’t even realize it, his mouth brushing your shoulder, the couch creaking under your weight.

Someone cracks a joke, laughter bouncing, but none of it touches your space. Just Art. He is being more clingy. More affectionate. More touchy, even if this is a public space. Art hums, pulling you closer, palm flat on your stomach. “Smell good,” he mumbles, and your eyes flick to Patrick before you move closer to your boyfriend. Patrick’s already looking sharp, leaning forward before a crooked smile flashes across his face.

You shift, drink empty, Art’s knuckles ghosting under your top, Patrick’s eyes locked on you, never looking away. The room spins in that syrupy, almost-drunk way, Art’s thumb drawing circles on your thigh. You murmur, “Bathroom, just a sec,” and he barely nods, distracted, lips brushing your temple again. When you stand, you straighten your skirt, and your top is still smooth while your heels click as you walk away from the scene. You feel eyes follow you, but you just continue.

He drains the last of his drink, sets the cup down, jaw tight, shoulders loose, still in that same seat. Until now. Art glances over to him, “Where are you going? ”Patrick shrugs, chin tipping toward the stairs. “Thought I saw someone I liked.” Art laughs, oblivious about what he's about to do. “You’re shameless.” Patrick smirks, “You say that like it’s new.” That’s it. Art doesn’t think twice; why would he? It’s Patrick, always fucking around. He always has girls in his arms. He doesn’t notice the way Patrick’s eyes track you, the heat in his step. He doesn’t know you’re the only one who went upstairs at this moment. But the bastard is already halfway to the stairs. He has this smile that you don’t know if you will get annoyed or not. He’s really confident like he’s really following someone he likes.

You closed the door when you reached the bathroom and didn’t slam it, but loud enough to make a sound. You locked it and the party sounds are not that loud inside but still bang against the wall because of the loud volume. The overhead light is too bright, gloss smudged, your neck sticky where Art kissed you, slow and tipsy, leaving his hand on your thigh too long. You don’t even need to pee; you just need a breath. You need a mirror, an excuse to get away from the couch, from Art’s heat, from the weight of Patrick’s stare across the room. You can still feel it, that look, how it drags over your skin no matter how crowded it gets. You swipe gloss over your bottom lip, steady, ignoring the trembling in your fingers, refusing to look like you’re hiding.

But of course, you’re not alone for long. He wants to break your peace too quickly, like a leech. Footsteps creak on the stairs, familiar enough that your jaw tenses before the knock even comes. It’s casual, like he owns the hallway. “Are you done yet? ” he calls, rough and flat, like he’s bored already while continuing to knock. “It’s occupied.” A pause, then, “Need to piss.” You roll your eyes, like… he can pick the other bathroom, and he's here. “There’s another one downstairs.” You stated that because he's just finding an excuse now, you feel it. “Line’s long. This one’s closer.” You roll your eyes, voice cool, “Sounds like a problem.”

Another knock, slower, just rhythm, toying with you. “Jesus. Chill out. Do your makeup or whatever while I take a piss. Just don’t look.” Your laugh is sharp. He's so unbelievable. So fucked up. Such an asshole. Really. “What makes you think I want to see you piss?” You are silent after that, and then there's the smug, nasty energy before it even lands. “You weren’t that shy when you were on your knees choking on my best friend’s cock.” You go still, heat climbing your neck, not shame- anger. Your hand slides to the lock, calm, opening the door slowly, steadily, and you look at him like you're sending him to his grave.

“Get a new obsession,” you say, voice flat, and face the mirror again like this is making you so bored. “That one’s old.” He pouts while he leans against the frame. He has this fake innocent look as he watches you. “It’s just an inside joke, chill,” Your fingers curl tight because what the fuck you supposed to feel when the inside joke is you giving your boyfriend a head? “You should focus your attention on someone who cares.” His smirk just widens like he's happy at what he heard. “Nice, cool. Don't give a fuck? Said by a girl who’s desperate for my attention.”

The door clicks shut when he finally goes inside. You stay by the sink, eyes on your reflection, gloss faded, concealer patchy, ignoring him. He unzips and starts pissing like it’s a show. You keep your focus on your mouth, the shape of your lips, dragging gloss back over them, top then bottom, careful, precise. The toilet flushes- zip, shift, maybe a shake. You couldn't care less anyway, so you just open your concealer and put some more underneath your eyes. You ignore the way there's tension because there's not.

There’s no warning or playing around when you feel him behind you. He’s like pressing his body against your back. So god forbid a girl needs a warning because maybe you don’t want his lips too close to you. Imagine if you move a little then your ass is pressing to his crotch. Yeah, imagine if you bend a little too. But what makes you jumpy is when his arms are between your legs against him when he slides them to open the faucet in front of you. Oh. Oh… Okay, that's a little embarrassing because he's just going to clean his hands, right? Water runs, splashing against the basin, while his other hand braces on the counter, caging you in. He washes his hands slowly, deliberately, letting droplets flick against your wrist. You keep dabbing concealer, acting untouched.

His hips press, casual, denim brushing the hem of your skirt. His shoulders brush yours every time he moves, steady, taking space like he’s testing how much you’ll tolerate. “Didn’t peg you for the type who fixes her face before she gets fucked,” he says, low and smooth. You don’t blink. “Didn’t peg you for the type who needs a mirror to feel tall.” A quiet huff of laughter, his breath warm against your temple. “Cute.”

You uncap your powder compact, pressing it against your cheek, ignoring the way his eyes drag down your reflection. “I saw how he was touching you downstairs,” Patrick murmurs, his voice closer, almost gentle, like a knife pressed flat. “Hands on your thighs, your waist. Let me guess- he fingers you under the blanket at parties, doesn’t he? Gets off on pretending no one knows.” Your jaw tightens, but you keep patting powder, ignoring the static crawling up your spine.

When he shifts, you can feel his hips now aligning with you. You could feel the way his jeans dragged slowly to your ass. “You let him fuck you in public like that, but up here, you need a minute alone?” You close the compact, lining your gloss and concealer on the sink, acting in control. “You talk a lot for someone who pisses like a drunk frat boy.” You stated, and you heard his voice drop when he answered that statement, teeth behind every syllable. “I’m just trying to understand. Is it that you like it soft? Or is it just that he can’t give you anything else? ”

You inhale, slow, measured, nails tapping marble. “Tell me,” he adds, lower, “does he even make you come?” You slam the gloss cap angrily as you turn slowly, back pressing into the sink, chin lifted. “I’m going to tell him you pissed on your hands and got water on my concealer.” He doesn’t flinch, leaning in, breath warm by your cheek, eyes on your mouth. “You know what’s wild?” he murmurs, voice curling dark. “Out of every girl begging for him, every future he could’ve chased- he ends up with you. And suddenly he forgets how to fucking win.”

You swipe gloss over your bottom lip, refusing to give him anything. His eyes track your mouth like he can’t help himself to watch you do that, especially if you have good lips. But he's a jerk, so it will not be the reason not to piss you off more. “Kind of tragic,” he continues, soft, lazy, and cruel. “The second he starts getting regular pussy, he stops showing up. Skips lifts, misses drills, can’t string a racquet without help.” Your lip twitches; you smooth it with your finger, eyes hard. “You must be proud,” he says, leaning closer, “ruined a whole prodigy with your legs spread.”

“Bet he tells you he’s lucky,” Patrick goes on, his voice darkening, soft enough to sink under your skin. “Bet he looks at you like you’re the reason he breathes, like you didn’t drag him off court into some pathetic boyfriend fantasy.” Your fingers press into the marble, gloss trembling. “Letting him fuck you in that dorm bed like it means something,” he says, “like moaning for him while I’m a few feet away doesn’t make you a joke.” Your throat shifts, but you don’t respond.

“Jesus, he fucks you like you’re made of glass,” Patrick adds, and that one slices deep. “You don’t want to be soft. You want someone who’ll grab you by the throat and ruin you. You want someone who’ll make you cry just to see how far he can take it. You want it to mean something. Don’t pretend you don’t.” You still don’t move, but he knows he’s winning, peeling you open layer by layer, and you hate him for it. You hate what he's doing right now. You hate him saying all of this bullshit.

Then softer, meaner, pressing close: “And I don’t even think you’re fixing your makeup for him.” You freeze, air stuck in your chest as you wait for his next words. “I think you’re fixing it for me.” His breath warms your cheek, that half-smirk in your periphery. “You want me to see it,” he says, low, patient, “want me to remember how pretty your mouth looked the first time I saw it full of his cock?”

Your fingers dig into the sink, shoulders tense, gloss still trembling on the marble. “You were so into it,” Patrick adds, grin slow and ugly, “down on your knees like some trophy whore with a mission, all devoted, like blowing him in the dark made you better than me.” Your jaw locks. “You came up here to feel clean again, didn’t you? ” he murmurs, voice almost soft. “But it’s still all over you, and we both know it.” Then, quiet, final, like dragging a match across the edge: “He’s the one getting your mouth. But I'll be the one to ruin it once we're finished.”

That’s the moment. Anger got deeper, hot in your throat, and you shoved him with both hands, teeth bared, in blind rage. He stumbles half a step, laughing under his breath, like it excites him. “Fuck you,” you spit, voice shaking. You glare at him while he still has that smug look on his face. Your hand slaps him before you even realize it. Your palm touches his cheek, hard. You feel it sting, and it leaves a red reaction on his cheek. His head turns a little to the action, but he just lets it happen and doesn't say anything. He's now talking to you, and he has something dark sparking in his eyes. Then he exhales, a wrecked grin barely holding. “There she is.”

Your hand hurts. You are not used to slapping people out of anger. Yeah, no shit, it's stinging a little. You practice your breathing while you're doing many activities. Cheeks are flushed and raw. Regardless of all of it, he still looks at you like it proved something, like it confirmed what he’s always known. “I’ve tried to be nice to you,” you say, low, shaking, eyes locked on him. “I fucking have.” His head tilts like it’s funny, like he’s indulging you, silent while you unravel. “I’ve let you get away with so much,” you continue, voice rising. “Because you’re Art’s friend. Because I thought if I ignored it, you’d get over it.”

Your chest heaves, heat crawling up your neck. “I didn’t tell him about the shit you’ve said when he wasn’t around. Or the way you touched my leg when you thought he couldn’t see. Or the way you look at me.” Your voice hardens, steady and cold. “You’re lucky, Patrick. Lucky I didn’t blow it all up the first time you opened your mouth. Lucky I kept it quiet. You think I couldn’t ruin you? ” He exhales slowly, the grin that follows calm and cruel, predictable. “As if he’d believe you.”

You freeze, the dismissal hitting harder than anything else tonight. His tone is light, like it’s obvious. He leans in, breath brushing your cheek, voice low. “You really think he’d believe you?” he murmurs. “The girlfriend who flirts with me when he’s out of the room? Who makes a scene every time I look at her, like she likes being watched?” Your jaw clenches, hands shaking. “He believes me,” Patrick finishes, no smirk this time, just that cold certainty. “Always has.”

Before you can speak, he moves. He grabs your wrists without warning and pins them down on the marble. Making you feel closed and caged in there with his body crowding you without any space left. His action made you unable to catch your breath; it was sudden and shocked you. You feel his grip tightening and rough enough to show you he has the upper hand, not you. He leans in like he might whisper something gentle, but nothing about Patrick Zweig is soft. “You are delusional to think he's going to believe you, because he's not,” he said, and he's pissed. His lips are so close to the point that you can feel the hotness of his breath against your face. “He’s not going to believe a single fucking thing you say about me.”

You turn your head, catching his eyes in the mirror, but he doesn’t look at you, too busy slicing. “You think he’d take your side over mine? Some girl he’s been fucking for what- eight months? Ten? Gets to undo everything? Rewrite the years?” His grip tightens, your wrists aching. “I’ve known him since before he had a serve. Before sponsors. Before he knew what to do with himself. We’ve roomed together, fought together, and won together. I’ve bled for him. I built him.”

Your laugh is bitter, breath hot. “You’re so fucking full of shit.” His mouth twitches. “And you’re so fucking temporary.” Your eyes narrow, your voice sharp, deadly. “This isn’t about Art believing me. It’s about you not being able to believe he chose me.” His eyes flick to yours, dangerous. “That’s what’s eating you alive, isn’t it?” You continue, breath catching. “That no matter how close you stand, no matter how much history you shove down everyone’s throat, he didn’t want you the way he wanted me.”

His face hardens, jaw tight, but he doesn’t interrupt, hands still locked around your wrists, body flush to yours. “You don’t hate me,” you said, almost challenging him. “I think you hate that you're not in my place,” you snap, and you are satisfied to see the crack in his expression when you said that because it's so fast- he got affected the moment you said those words. He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath, and you can feel the silence so loud it fills the whole bathroom. He leans in again, voice lower, scraped raw, closer than before. “I don’t want to be in your place,” he mutters. “I want to fuck you out of it.”

The moment lands, heavy, and then he moves- just a slow, steady shift of his hips, rough denim grinding against you, pressing close until your breath catches like a hook in your throat. His grip on your wrist doesn’t ease, body against you, cock dragging in you like he wants to wear you down one grind at a time. You hate how fast your body betrays you, how your thighs press together, how heat pools low in your stomach, shame curling with it. He feels it, of course he does, and the quiet, smug sound he lets out brands itself into your spine. “Didn’t even have to touch you yet,” he murmurs, not mocking- worse, admiring. “And you’re already squeezing your fucking legs like it’ll help.” You force your voice sharp, trying to cut through it. “Get the fuck off me-”

But you don’t believe it, not when he lets go of one wrist only to drag that hand down your side, slow enough you feel every inch. Over your ribs, pausing at your waist, gathering your skirt in his fist like he’s done it before, like he knows exactly what’s waiting. His palm grazes your inner thigh, heavy and possessive, and then it’s up, in, cupping you over your underwear like it’s nothing, like you’re nothing. Your breath catches too fast, and he groans because your body confirms everything he’s ever suspected about you. “Jesus,” he breathes. “He has no idea what he’s got, does he? Letting you walk around like this, untouched, leaking for the first person who calls you a slut.”

Your body burns, scraping up your throat like it has claws. “I’ll tell him,” you manage, voice shaking but jaw set. His hand stills for a moment against you. “I’ll tell Art. I’ll tell him you touched me, that you said all this shit, that you came in here and tried to-” You say too quickly, and your breath catches in your throat, making you not finish your sentence. “Tried?” Patrick laughs, sharp and slow, slicing you open. “You’re going to tell him I tried?” Your stomach turns, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s already pushing your panties aside like you never spoke, fingers slipping through the mess of you, dragging through your slick, and the stunned groan he lets out.

“You’re not going to tell him shit.” His breath is warm, calm, like it’s the harsh truth. Your breath hitches when his fingers drag up again, soaking and obscene in how easy it is for him to find how wet you are. “Because then you’d have to tell him the rest,” he murmurs, curling a finger, teasing without giving anything. “You’d have to tell him you stayed still. That you let me touch you. That you fucking liked it.” He chuckles when you arch and presses his hand unintentionally because your body is reacting to it. You feel the heat burning because of the anger, shame, and humiliation he's making you feel.

“You won’t say a word,” he stated and smiled at you because he's showing that you don't have a choice; it's said gently and softly, like a slap to your face. “Because you’re a cheating little whore who let me in.” Your breath hitches at his words before you shake your head. You're not a cheater. You're not. You're not an asshole like him who wants his girlfriend. You are not cheating on Art because you don't want it. You don't… right?

You can feel his hold on your wrist tighten, and he looks at your eyes while his other hand slips one knuckle deep and presses into you. “You let me in.” His voice is quiet, terrifying in its certainty, his hand dragging through your slick like it’s his reward for being right. Your hips twitch, betrayal hot and dizzying, the bathroom too small around the sound of your breathing. You react without thinking, twisting sharply, trying to shove him off, but he only smiles, hands shifting to your hips.

Before you can slap him, he moves, lifting you like it’s nothing, setting you down hard on the counter, cold marble against your ass. His chest crowds your knees, the bathroom buzzing with heat and light. You open your mouth to say many insults and curse him out and your legs are much more comfortable now. You took your chance anyway. You kick, distracted and your foot touches his stomach before you completely lose it. You just want to feel it, especially the kick. For a second, trembling, you think it’s over. Then he laughs, low and wrecked, half pain, half pleasure. “Oh, fuck, you’re really one of those.”

“You fight when you’re turned on, huh?” He taunts you and laughs while his eyes remain on you. “Kick me while I’m touching your pussy and expect me to believe you don’t want it?” You glare, chest heaving, anger in your throat, but he steps closer, wincing, still laughing. “Because I don’t,” you spit, shoving at him, but he’s already between your legs again, body heat rolling off him, oppressive. “No?” he mocks softly, tilting his head. “Then why are you soaked through your panties?”You try to slap him, but he catches your wrist midair, calm, practiced, eyes locked on yours, dark and vicious.

“You like it when I’m disgusting,” he says, voice low, almost tender. “You like it when I talk shit about your perfect little boyfriend. You want me to treat you like trash and fuck you stupid while you lie to his face.” You feel your pulse thrumming in your throat, and it's suffocating you. You don't look away as much, you try it because he keeps squeezing you every time you do it, and making your breath hitch. “You want it to be mean,” he adds. “So I’m going to give it to you.” His grip tightens, bruising where his fingers dig in, his cock hard against your inner thigh, breath ragged, ready, filthy with want. You’re perched on the cold counter, body flushed, heart hammering, thighs trembling- not with fear. With rage. With something worse than rage.

Before you can slap him, he moves, lifting you like it’s nothing, setting you down hard on the counter, cold marble against your ass. His chest crowds your knees, the bathroom buzzing with heat and light. You open your mouth to say many insults and curse him out but your legs are much more comfortable now. You took your chance anyway. You kick, distracted and your foot touches his stomach before you completely lose it. You just want to feel it, especially the kick. For a second, full of adrenaline, you think it’s over because he got the hint. Then he laughs, low and wrecked, half pain, half pleasure. “Oh, fuck, you’re really one of those.”

“You fight when you’re turned on, huh?” He taunts you and laughs while his eyes remain on you. “Kick me while I’m touching your pussy and expect me to believe you don’t want it?” You glare, chest heaving, anger in your throat, but he steps closer, wincing, still laughing. “Because I don’t,” you spit out, shoving at him, but he’s already between your legs again, body heat rolling off him, oppressive. “No?” he mocks softly, tilting his head. “Then why are you soaked through your panties?” You try to slap him, but he catches your wrist midair, calm, practiced, eyes locked on yours, dark and vicious.

“You like it when I’m disgusting,” he says, voice low, almost tender. “You like it when I talk shit about your perfect little boyfriend. You want me to treat you like trash and fuck you stupid while you lie to his face.” You feel your pulse thrumming in your throat and it's suffocating you. You don't look away as much, you try it because he keeps squeezing you every time you do it, and making your breath hitch. “You want it to be mean,” he adds. “So I’m going to give it to you.” His grip tightens, bruising where his fingers dig in, his cock hard against your inner thigh, breath ragged, ready, filthy with want. You’re perched on the cold counter, body flushed, heart hammering, thighs trembling- not with fear. With rage. With something worse than rage.

You’ve had enough. You look him dead in the eye, voice cold and flat. “You’re just pissed he gets to fuck this pussy and you don’t.” It’s not a tease, it’s a bullet, and you see the twitch in his jaw before his smile vanishes like you punched him harder than your foot ever could. It only lasts a second before twisting into something darker, unhinged. “Oh yeah?” he says, voice rough, all threat, before grabbing your thighs, harsh and fast, shoving them open so wide the counter edge bites your legs. He steps in, crowding you completely, hands spreading you like he’s got something to prove and no patience left to do it gently.

“I’m going to fuck it too,” he snarls. One hand yanks your panties down in one motion, dragging the soaked fabric past your knees like it offends him, like it proves every awful thing he’s ever said about you. He lets it drop to the floor and ignores it, like you never meant to keep it on. “You think letting him in first means anything to me? I’m still going to have a taste.” You glare at him because that's what you do. You always try not to react when he does something stupid. You try not to show how much he's getting under your skin and how naked you feel right now. You try not to make your thighs tremble worse than they're doing right now. You try not to feel something you refuse to name. You just hate him when he does something like this as if his breath is hot and close to your jaw, hands rough on your hips, voice low, “You let him in. Now you’re going to let me take it.”

Something in you snaps. Without even realizing it, you shoved him hard. But as expected, he barely moves an inch, he just waits for you to do more. So you just say something, “You better fuck me better than he does, or I’m telling him everything.” This is messy, you know that. You shouldn't give in, you also know that. But you are prideful and you refuse to back down from Patrick. He doesn’t laugh but he smiles, darker, breathes in like your words are the best thing he’s ever tasted. Then moves, reaching into his pocket without looking away. He flips open his phone, presses record, and points the camera at you.

“What the fuck are you-” you start, but he cuts you off. “I want you to remember this,” he says, voice low. “Have something to have in my memorabilia when you are playing good girlfriend to Art.” You watch him kneel in front of you and he opens your legs wider as he settles on the tile. His grip is not changing, it's still tight and firm, and his nails are digging. It's embarrassing actually how your panties are tangling at your ankles, and the heat of his breath is getting closer to where you want him. One hand holds the phone, the other slides up your leg, mapping out what’s his, eyes flicking up, not asking, just memorizing you.

“I want you to cum on my tongue,” he says like it's already decided and approved by you, “and then I’m going to make you watch it happen.” You just nod while you feel your breath stutter. You can’t speak because the words are dying on your tongue as his tongue drags across your inner thigh, slow and teasing like he's taunting you while making you twitch. He exhales and laughs like he feels everything building in your pulse, your shaking legs. Then, softer but dark enough to slice you open, he whispers, “Tell the camera.” You don’t move, breath caught, and shaking. “Tell him I made you forget his name.”

And with that, he buries his face between your legs like he’s been waiting forever. You’re shaking now as you watch him still filming, and you're trying to keep control like the words can keep your body in line- but it’s slipping. His mouth is too fucking good because goddamn, he's not just licking you like with what he use to other girls. You feel him learning. He's moving his tongue like he's remembering the shape and he's mapping you. He's learning every movement in your hips, every moan you are trying to swallow but fail, and he wants to own every sound you make. You don’t move at first, not when his breath ghosts over your thigh, not when his mouth hovers like he thinks he’s worshipping something.

You just reach down, fingers closing over the phone still in his hand, and when he doesn’t stop what you're doing, you snatch it. He doesn't even blink and lets you take it. You tilt the camera, angle it right, his face framed by your thighs, slick between them, nothing else. You press record. And you smile at him like there's a switch that just got turned on. “Look at you,” you murmur and mocking him. “On your knees for a girl you can’t fucking stand.” His tongue flicks over your mound and you don’t flinch.

“You talk all that shit about how I mess him up, how I made him soft, how I fucked up his game.” You tilt the phone to catch his mouth around your cunt, especially him licking your clit. “But here you are, pathetic, obsessed, tongue out like a fucking dog.” He groans when you call him that word while his mouth is open, tongue dragging up your slit like he’s trying to drown in it, like this is what he’s always wanted. You feel the heat and the mess, the way your body reacts, but you don’t let it show. Not yet. Not going to give him that satisfaction. “You pretend you hate me, but this is what you’ve been begging for.”

He grunts into your pussy, fingers digging into your thighs, tongue sloppy and eager. “God, listen to you,” you whisper, your voice hard even as your thighs tremble. “It’s embarrassing how you moan like it's the real cunt you've ever eaten.” His body shudders at that, his hips twitch like he wants to rut against the floor, like he's soaked inside his clothes and tip dripping. “You love this, don’t you?” You breathe, still filming, your grip steady. “Being on your knees, being used, being recorded like the pathetic freak you are.” His mouth closes around your clit, and your voice finally cracks, a sharp gasp tearing out as your legs shake.

But you keep going, shaking, spit-slick, and ruined. “You’ve wanted it since the first time you saw me fuck him,” you say, breath ragged, mean. “You wanted to know what I taste like when I’m thinking about someone else.” He groans, jaw working faster, tongue relentless, hitting perfectly, your body tightening and arching, moans wrecked. “You like taking people’s girlfriends,” you hiss, fisting his hair, grinding him into you. “Sick.” He whines, tongue moving like he needs it to live, humiliated and desperate.

You press the phone closer, making the angle worse for him and better for you. Through your own shaking, gasping moans, you whisper, “You better make me come so hard I forget his name.” He moves unexpectedly and his action made you jumpy because you can feel his grip tighten as he pulls your thighs even wider open to keep you in your place. Then his mouth close around your clit, and he sucks hard. Your whole body jolts like he shocked you, a sound catching in your throat before you can silence it. It spills out high, sharp, and raw- and he knows.

He groans against it which makes a vibration through the action as he does it with his tongue flicking and his lips dragging sloppy and relentlessly head to you. Like he’s giving you something no one ever gave you before. You choke on the moan, trying to keep it quiet, but it slips. “It feels- fuck- it feels good.” You freeze the second you hear yourself say it. He doesn’t. He moans into you again, louder, deeper, like it’s praise, tongue drawing slow circles, lips sucking hard, rhythm locked in, a wicked smirk pressed into your cunt like he just won the match point.

You try to yank his hair, to glare, to be mean or something, but he’s not having it. His tongue flicks faster, and you feel the orgasm building in your spine, and it’s inevitable. While he’s sucking- devouring- grinning- smug- piece of shit, because you slipped, because you admitted it felt good, and now he’s going to make sure you remember it. But instead of speeding up, instead of chasing your orgasm, he changes. Slow. Smooths out his movements like he’s changing lanes, like this isn’t just about your pleasure anymore. His tongue moves slowly, every stroke carved with intent which is to make you cum. A single line, then a curve, then a sharp flick.

You feel it in your thighs first, then your gut, your brain catching up. He’s spelling something. P…flick up, drag down across your clit. A… soft sweep, almost a shape. T… slow, pressing, obscene. Of course, you try not to give in like biting your lips but your body isn’t listening to what you want and keep bucking and your breath is like you are running in a marathon. And he keeps going. R… a drawn slowly, tongue curling to do the letter. I… just a short stroke, playful dot after. C… just a curl of his tongue from up to the left, like you’re drawing a rainbow. K… this letter is wetter, meaner, and worse than the last. You want to say his name to tell him to stop, but that’s the point. He wants it in your mouth.

He pulls back, mouth slick down to his chin, lips parted, eyes dark and shining when he says, “You feel that?” You’re panting, trembling, trying not to nod. “That’s me,” he says, smiling into your thigh before he bites it and sucks it a little. “That’s Patrick.” Then he leans in and spells it again, slow this time to taunt you as if he’s making fun of this situation because he’s making sure you’ll feel it when you sit, when you shower, when Art’s inside you and you can’t help but remember. Your hand slips, the phone drops down beside her, still recording every soaked, ruined sound echoing from the bathroom. It doesn’t matter anymore. You’re not acting for the camera, and you’re breathing but barely. Your hands clawing at the counter while Patrick’s mouth eats you down piece by piece.

He groans against your cunt, tongue dragging, jaw relentless, pulling back to speak, mouth hovering over your clit like a threat. “Jesus. You’ve got no shame,” he mutters. “This pussy’s unreal. And you waste it on him?” You try to breathe, shaking your head, but it doesn’t matter. He groans, tongue pressing flat and slow like he’s licking you clean, “He doesn’t deserve this. You let him touch you like it means something.” You whine and your legs twitch when his hold tightened and making them stay still and pinning you in place as if he knows you are getting a wobbly feeling.

“You like this, don’t you?” he asks, voice sharp, ugly but he’s smirking at the audacity of the situation. “You like cheating on him, lying to his face, then spreading your legs for me.” You kick your foot in the air but he just shuts it down by pinning it back where it was. You shake your head as his words get into you. “Shut up,” you gasp, but it’s weak, drowned out by the sound of your body soaking his mouth. “You don’t want love,” Patrick grunts, sucking your clit hard like it’s punishment. “You want this. You want to be fucked. You want to be used. You want me to fuck you while you still smell like his sheets.” You let out a broken cry, legs shaking, orgasm right there, hot and you can’t stop it.

“Say it,” he growls, licking you rougher, faster, and meaner. “Say you like cheating on him.” You can’t speak, mouth open, whimpers spilling instead of words. He pulls back just enough to say it again, meaner, louder, “Say. You like cheating on him.” Then he sucks, deep, long, and hard, and you shatter, coming with a sound that doesn’t sound like yours, body seizing, thighs clamping, voice cracking open into a moan that lives in shame. Just before it takes you under, before you lose everything, he says it, low, laughing, awful: “Fuck, listen to you. You’re coming like you were made to cheat.”

You’re shaking, hot and soaked, nerves frayed from being edged and denied, everything in you strung tight and aching. You didn’t realize how close you were until he ripped his mouth away, leaving you open, wanting, and ruined. Your thighs twitch, hips searching for contact, for anything. But he doesn’t give it. You watched him unbuckle his belt while his eyes were locked on you as you fell apart in front of him. You hear his zipper slowly slide down, metal sounds echoing and then he pulls out his cock from inside, it’s thick, flushed, already slick from watching you unravel.

You want to spit something, anything, but your mouth is dry, breath shallow, and hands braced against the counter like you’ll slide off if he touches you again. He steps forward, eyes on yours, stroking himself once, twice, dragging the head of his cock up your soaked slit. He doesn’t push in, just lets it rest there- heavy, hot, a promise. “You don’t like cheating?” he murmurs, soft enough to sound gentle but meant to make you sick. “Then what the fuck is this?” You open your mouth, but he moves before you can speak, cock rolling against you, dragging through slick that makes you both groan, your legs twitching wide.

“Say it,” he says, tongue pressed to his teeth, “Lie to me again. Tell me you don’t want this.” You can’t, not with how you’re pulsing, cunt clenching every time the head of his cock bumps your cunt, still twitching from the orgasm taken away from you. And he knows it. He presses forward- just the tip. He did it just close- enough for you to feel the first stretch, the first pulse of yes where there should be no. “You left him downstairs,” Patrick breathes, dragging the tip over your clit, slow and filthy. “Still sitting there. On that couch. Right where you told him you’d be back.”

His voice sounds jealous, and low. “He’s probably sipping that drink like a good boy, waiting, doesn’t even realize you’re up here dripping for me.” And downstairs there’s Art shifts on the couch, the party humming around him, laughter echoing off the tile. Someone bumps the couch, but barely hears it. He checks his phone. There’s nothing. No “on my way.” No “almost done.” Just silence. While upstairs, Patrick finally pushes in- not all the way but enough to make your body twitch, to watch your mouth part like it forgot how to lie.

His hand is on your hip, breath warm at your ear. “And you’re about to let me fuck the pussy he thinks is his.” You don’t reply to that but you don’t close your legs either. He takes that as a yes, sinking in with one long, thick slide until he’s buried to the base. Your back hits the mirror, your breath breaking on a moan you can’t hold back. It doesn’t matter. He starts to move, counter creaking under your hips, strokes slow, deep, and unforgiving. Your palms press back against the mirror behind you, breath catching as he fucks you. You try to stay quiet. You fail. “He’s going to find out,” you whisper, breathless. Patrick smirks, “No,” he murmurs back, “He’ll never know.” Then he fucks you harder.

The music keeps rolling somewhere below, a muffled thump under the sharp slap of skin, under the choked sounds you can’t hold back. But Art is still there. In the living room where you left him. The room is still glowing while he’s holding a cup with a drink he’s not going to drink anymore. And suddenly someone speaks, “She’ll be back,” but it doesn’t reach him, not really. His hand tightens on the cup. He’s moving before he even realizes it, stepping into the dark, following the ghost of your laughter, the shadow of your absence. Above him, Patrick continued his movements inside of you. His thrusts are heavy, cock dragging slow, pressing the guilt deeper with every stroke.

You’re shaking, trying not to say his name, but a moan slips out. Patrick groans. “If he finds out,” he says, voice sharp, fucking in harder, “it’s because you told him.” He grinds deeper, your hips jerking. “Otherwise, he’ll never fucking know.” And what both of you know is that he’s outside. He just stops in front of it after seeing the closed bathroom door with the light on. He doesn’t go to it, just stands, face changing slightly. He hears it- a thud, a breath, something wet, the sound of something.

In the bathroom, Patrick leans in, voice rough, dragging his cock deep with a thrust that makes your breath catch. “Are you going to tell him, huh?” he murmurs, teeth grazing your skin. “Are you going to walk out of here soaked in my cum and explain why you’re walking differently?” You choke on your moan, shaking your head, nails scraping the mirror. “Say it.” Your voice breaks, “Fuck- he’ll never know.” Patrick groans, hips stuttering as he slams back in, filthy and unforgiving, “That’s right.”

Art steps closer to the bathroom door. He doesn’t touch the handle, doesn’t knock, just stands there, listening. Because the sound behind it- low, steady, awful- doesn’t stop. Not when you whisper that Art might find out, not when your breath catches like it’s already too late. If anything, Patrick fucks you harder, grip tightening on your waist, jerking your hips back into every thrust like you’re nothing but leverage. Push you more over the counter, one of his hands flat palmed on the glasses while the other wraps around your hair. When he pulled, it earned a sound from your throat while your head snapped back, and your spine arched.

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear, “Think he could ever fuck you like this?” Patrick hisses, cock grinding deep, words soft enough to burn. You bite your lip, but he pulls harder, forcing your body to answer for you. “Think he could choke you the way you like?” His hand slides to your throat, wraps around it, pressing until your pulse hammers against his palm, the room going warm around the edges. “Poor Art,” he mutters, teeth scraping your jaw, “still out there thinking you’re his.” He fucks in harder, rhythm filthy enough to echo in the hall, sink creaking beneath you as you fail to swallow your moan. “He doesn’t even know how to ruin you,” Patrick snarls, hips snapping, “doesn’t even know how to keep you.”

“Go ahead. Slap me.” You do, twisting to crack your palm across his face, sharp and loud. It only makes him groan. “God,” he pants, “fucking knew you wanted this.” He thrusts in rougher, hands around your throat, not cutting off air- just making you take it. Outside, Art steps closer, frozen, head tilted, the party still happening behind him. At first, he tells himself it’s nothing- just other people. But it’s not working. He hears it all now, wet and steady, a slap, a moan that goes straight to the center of him.

His blood goes quiet, like something inside is holding its breath. His hand hovers near the knob but doesn’t move. And then he hears Patrick’s voice, low, ragged, and familiar in a way that tastes like a poison now. “Think he could ever fuck you like this?” It lands heavy, sour, and immediately. Almost like he’s saying this out of spite, but you don’t know if it’s to him or you. Then: “Doesn’t even know how to ruin you.” Art doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe. Then he hears you- your voice, soft, cracked, gutted, trying not to sound but still sounding. His hand twitches, but he doesn’t knock. He tells himself he should demand the truth, but his body doesn’t move.

Then he notices the pressure in his jeans, realization sinking as he gets hard. Which is sick not because he wants to or it’s real. Maybe it’s the irony of it. His girlfriend. His best friend. One bathroom. Noises are so filthy. He feels sick, but he’s still standing there. Then Patrick’s voice comes again, closer, deliberate: “You gonna walk back into that party full of me and lie to his fucking face?” Art’s lips part, but nothing comes out, his cock aching so hard it hurts. Inside, Patrick’s got you pressed against the sink, stuffed full, every thrust deliberate, designed to drag the truth out of you whether you speak it or not.

“Bet he’s out there,” Patrick mutters, grinding deep as if he already knows Art is outside. Maybe he just says that out of the thrill. He groans at the thought though with a big smirk on his face, “still waiting, still thinking you’re his.” You snap, slapping his chest, but he just laughs, fucking you deeper. “Keep going,” he breathes, “fight me.” He encourages and licks his lips while his hips continue to work and still smug. “I-I hngh… h-hate you,” you moan out, hands flatten to his chest to shove him off, but his hands tighten, dragging you back onto him. “No, you don’t,” he growls, thrusting roughly, the counter making sounds beneath you. Your nails digging at his forearm, nails deep, but he groans like he likes it. “G-get off me, P-pat,” you gasp, but you don’t stop him.

“You don’t want that either.” His voice is ragged, breathless, body is hot against you. You feel how deep he is, dragging through everything slick and tense, hating how your body responds. “I don’t even like y-you-” You gasp, breath catching, throwing your hands into his ribs. It lands hard. He grunts, but it only makes him moan, teeth flashing in a grin. “Fuck, you always get like this when you’re about to come?” You scratch down his shoulder, carving lines, and he groans, cock twitching. “God,” he breathes out, voice low and pleasured, “you’re hot when you’re pissed.”

“I swear to God I’m telling him-” you bite out, but Patrick laughs at that. “No, you’re not,” he pants, teeth at your shoulder, hand on your waist, pulling you back onto him like leverage. “Because you’re going to come for me first,” he breathes, “and then you’re going to lie.” Your cunt betrays you, tightening around him. “You think he’d still want you,” Patrick growls, “if he saw you like this?” You slam your palm into his chest, but he catches your wrist, grabbing your hair, yanking your head back until your spine arches, mouth open in a gasp.

“You think he’d still want you,” he whispers again, voice poison, “if he knew I was the one who made you scream?” Your head tips back, his name slipping out, sharp and unwilling, barely a gasp. He groans against your throat like he’s won. Outside, Art stands frozen, listening to the wet slap of skin, your soft stuttered gasps. Patrick’s voice drips low, “If he knew I was the one who made you scream.” It lands like a punch, knocking air from Art’s lungs.

He stares at the floor while his hands are shaking. He could very much see the tent forming in his jeans before he pulled out his phone from his pocket. He checks his contacts and your name is already there. Click your contact and pray to saints that you’ll answer even if he knows you wouldn’t. The ringtone starts just beyond the door, too loud. You don’t move. Patrick keeps fucking with you, body hitting yours while your phone rings out, thumping on the counter. Patrick laughs low, “Answer it.” Nothing. A moan.

You feel his hands on your top before he squeezes it. “Fuck… you have great tits.” Art lowers the phone, lips parting, cock hard, so hard it makes him sick. The phone rings again, slicing sharply. Patrick doesn’t stop, driving deeper with a sharp thrust that jolts your hips. “Answer it,” he mutters, voice thick with cruelty. “Let him hear you.” Your hand reaches for the phone, but Patrick’s already there, locking around your waist, dragging you back onto him. “Or don’t,” he says, slower, “let it ring while he listens to me fuck you.” You shake your head, hating what he’s saying. “Stop,” you whisper, voice cracking, “fuck, stop- he’s-”

“He’s what?” Patrick breathes, cock slamming up into you with thick, wet sounds. “He’s out there?” Your body shakes, arms trembling, thighs clenching around him like your cunt doesn’t know this is betrayal, only that you’re full. The phone rings again, Patrick leaning closer, grinding deep, mouth hot on your neck. “Let him hear it,” he whispers, “let him hear how messy you get for me.” You try to shove him off, but your hips push back, a moan catching in your throat. The phone thumps again, your hand knocking it away. You don’t try again.

Patrick keeps moving, steady and mean, fucking you through your panic. “You think he still wants you?” he growls, cock dragging slow, “Think he still wants to come home with you? Look you in the eyes? Tell you how lucky he is?” You shake your head, breath ragged, “Patrick-” Another thrust, hard, deep. The ringtone cuts off, leaving silence thick and awful. He doesn’t stop. Patrick’s breath is damp on your ear, his voice low and awful. “He’s calling because he knows.” You choke. “And you’re still letting me in.” You try to let your head fall, but Patrick cradles your jaw, forcing you to look.

“Look,” he says, breathe hot, “look at what I’m doing to you.” He tilts your face down, your lashes dragging low, vision clearing between your legs, and you nearly choke. It’s obscene, your thighs spread over his hips, trembling, skin tacky where he holds you open. Between them, his cock buried thick, dragging slow with every thrust, so deep it feels like it’s in your ribs. You’re flushed, leaking, your slick painting him with every ruined pass of his hips. He pulls back, the light catching where you glisten, before he fucks back in, wetter, meaner. “God,” Patrick breathes, “you see how you take me?” You can’t answer, your cunt tightening in helpless waves. It’s too much, too perfect, too disgusting.

“That’s mine,” he whispers at your jaw. “This pretty pussy, dripping. Mine.” Your head falls forward, chest stuttering. He fucks deeper, grinding like he’s carving it into you. His palm presses low on your belly, to where he stretches you deepest. “Are you going to come?” he murmurs, dragging his thumb over your clit, slow and filthy. “Gonna soak me just in time for him to take you home?”You sob out something that might be a yes.

He groans, jaw tight, pace breaking. “I’m going to fill you up,” he growls, “so full you’ll feel it every time you walk.” That does it. Your body open the gates and your thighs locked on his waist while your cunt is clenching tight around his cock. You bury your face in his neck before your orgasm rolls out of your body and your breath feels like it stopped. But Patrick keeps moving, slower, desperate, hips stuttering. He’s still inside you when he comes, deep and raw, breath hitching, cock pulsing thick. You feel it fill you, slick and wrong and perfect.

Even after, quiet and spent, he doesn’t pull out. He stays, one hand curled around your thigh, the other ghosting up your spine, breath warm at your cheek. You feel it before he says it, that last whisper: “Tell me what you see.” And you do. You look down at your lap, at the mess, at where he’s still inside you, your cunt stretched and twitching, flushed and leaking. You swallow. “My pussy,” you rasp.

Patrick smiles, but it’s not soft, just sure. His hand strokes along your thigh, fingers grazing where your skin is glossy from sweat and slick. He shifts once, just enough for you to feel it- he’s still inside, still thick, still hard. “You think he’ll feel it?” Patrick says, voice low, cruelly soft. “When he fucks you later, do you think he’ll notice how loose you are?” You shake your head, too fast, too weak, and he pushes deeper. It just made your body twitch. “I think he will,” he whispers, eyes locked on yours, “I think he’ll slide in and feel the shape I left.”

Your cunt clenches, instinct and betrayal. Not liking the way you like his words is affecting you. Patrick groans, “Fuck. You like that, knowing I did this.” You go still, too still when his hand presses low on your belly, palm flat. He’s feeling the shape of his cock against it. “You think he’ll pretend not to notice?” he murmurs, “that he won’t feel you dripping on me while he fucks you later in the dark?” You close your eyes, don’t answer. But he knows you won’t clean up, not if he doesn’t make you. And he won’t. He stays a moment longer, then finally, he pulls out.

You feel it immediately- the stretch, the slide, the slow spill of his cum dripping down your thighs, pooling beneath you. It’s everywhere. You don’t move but Patrick does. He smooths your skirt back down like he didn’t just fuck the soul out of you, tucks himself away, and runs a hand through his hair like nothing happened. He doesn’t look at you when he leaves. He doesn’t have to but he manages to close the door. What an asshole. You’re still on the counter, legs open, mouth parted, full of him.

While Art managed to go downstairs before you and Patrick finished what you’ve been doing. But he hadn’t meant to stay that long or to spy, his intention was only meant to check. You’d been gone too long, your phone ringing unanswered- that was it. A concern, a quiet pull in his chest: Go see. He hadn’t meant to stay, not after the knock went unanswered, not after hearing a voice that wasn’t yours- at least, not like that. But then Patrick had said something low and possessive, and Art just went still.

Then he heard you, soft, desperate, almost broken, and he couldn’t really move. Not when the sounds got clearer, not when it became obvious, not when Patrick started saying things no man should hear about their girlfriend. He told himself he’d leave, that he hadn’t heard enough to be sure. And then Patrick asked if you were coming, and you did. The second Art heard that sound, he turned and left, no slamming, no scene. It’s not him. Not very Art Donaldson to force open the door and pick up a fight with you and Patrick.

So he just walks away. It’s like the walk when you can’t be in that place. That you heard enough. He feels every step, it’s heavy with his jaw locked just to keep himself from shouting and saying vile things. He walk straight to the kitchen as if he’s not standing in front of the bathroom door hearing his girlfriend getting dicked down by Patrick. He just leans against the counter while he’s trying to take it all in and the party still keeps going. He knows someone call his name but he doesn’t give a fuck at this moment. He stares at the floor, still hearing that soft gasp you made when Patrick is inside you. His stomach turns.

Art doesn’t know if he wants to hit Patrick or himself, doesn’t know who to blame first, and doesn’t know if he wants to see you again tonight or disappear before you come back down. But he waits. He waits like something caught in a fire- quiet, cornered, burning. He doesn’t look up when he hears Patrick on the stairs, already knowing it would be him, already tracking the minutes. No rush in Patrick’s step, like he doesn’t have something to sneak out of and he’s more satisfied than guilty or ashamed.

Patrick’s shirt is rumpled, hair messy, mouth softened into that tired smirk Art’s seen before. He heads for the drinks without a glance, pops the cap like he’s earned it. Art doesn’t speak until after Patrick takes his first sip. “How was it?” he asks, too casually, not lifting his gaze. Patrick turns halfway, brows raised. “What?”

Art keeps his tone even, almost friendly. “The hookup. You said you found someone.” He sips the drink he managed to get before he saw Patrick, then looks up, unreadable. “I assume it went well.” There’s a flicker in Patrick’s eyes. “Yeah,” he says carefully. “She was into it.” Art hums, not quite agreement, not quite disbelief. Just like his normal self he can plaster right now to pretend he’s not seething. “Of course,” he says.

Art laughs before saying, “You always have a different taste you know? Always going to the girls who should know better.” He can’t tell what Art is planning by saying that but he’s not happy hearing it and his mouth twitches.“She has a name?” Art asks, trying to sound like a curious best friend, and when Patrick doesn’t answer, he doesn’t press. He tilts his head. “She must be very pretty to have your own drink abandoned. Like it doesn’t sound like you. You were so eager to go upstairs.”

Patrick exhales dry amusement. “I wasn’t the only one interested.” Art’s eyes flick down, then back up. He sees the careless tilt of Patrick’s shoulders, the quiet arrogance. “No,” Art agrees. “But you’ve always liked being first, haven’t you? Doesn’t matter who she is, what her body is, or if she’s in a relationship.” That land, too striking, but hidden in plain sight. Patrick’s grip tightens on the bottle, and Art lets the silence stretch. “Anyway,” Art says softly, turning away, “I hope it was worth it, Pat. She doesn’t usually fake it. Then again, maybe she didn’t have to.” He knows he shouldn’t say that knowing that he doesn’t know the ‘she’ in his excuse beside he knows he won’t tell him it’s his girlfriend.

While the tension is thick downstairs, here you are, you don’t move for a while after the door clicks shut. The bathroom is still heavy. Your thighs stick, slick cooling on your skin. You breathe shallow, like anything deeper might push what’s left of him further in. Eventually, you shift. Reach for a tissue. Then another. You clean the mess between your legs with shaky hands. You are trying to erase it. Removing the shame. The guilt. The action. None of the wipes worked. Your pussy still aches, clenching over nothing and it’s pulsing.

Thankfully your panties are still very much alive and you get them before you put them on despite the uncomfortable feeling it makes between your legs. Your hands are hard against the fabric even though you are trying to smooth out the wrinkly part of it because it looks like it just got out of the laundry and you are pretending right. You look at yourself: hair messy, lips smudged with the lip product you put earlier, mascara fucked and your legs are shaking as you stands right now. But you start fixing it like what you were supposed to do earlier when you planned to go there. Just to retouch and get some air. You put concealer, retouch under your eyes, gloss your lips, and fix your hair. But you’re not even rushing even as you should considering how long you’ve been gone, but you’re not stalling either. Wipe, fix, adjust, and stack these steps like armor.

Now you don’t look like that girl anymore. You lean closer, studying your reflection, the flush blooming under your makeup, the raw part of your lip. You take a deep breath as you straighten how you stand, closing the compact and you exhale. The hallway is suspiciously quiet when you open the door of the bathroom and you step out of it. You are nervous as hell as you go downstairs slowly, not hurried. Each step you are doing feels another sin adding to the existing list you have. Your breath is shaky and your hands are too while you continue to swiping them on your skirt before you round the corner.

The kitchen is still the same. Still bright. Full of drinks. The place is still crowded and loud and it’s starting to get annoying. Patrick sees you first. He doesn’t move, just watches. You don’t look at him. You don’t have to. Art is already crossing the room, quick but not rushed, like he’s been waiting for you. “Hey,” he says, soft, warm, too easy now. “Where have you been?” Before you answer, his hand is on your back, guiding you like nothing’s wrong. His other hand lifts yours, brushing your knuckles, kissing your cheek, smiling like he means it.

“You okay?” he asks, low. “You look flushed.” You nod. Behind you, Patrick shifts but doesn’t speak. Art turns slightly, hand still at your hip, thumb grazing in slow, familiar circles. “Was just telling Patrick we might head out,” he says, like it’s decided. “Unless you want to stay?” You shake your head. Art leans in near your ear, smiling. “That’s what I thought.” His grip feels possessive but not hurting you, it’s soft and gentle but you can feel the decision in it as he turns to Patrick. He has this same, still his best friend still your loving boyfriend. Only his eyes look dangerous.

You don’t say goodbye. Art curls his hand around your hip, steering you toward the front door, coat over his arm, voice low like nothing’s changed. You don’t look back; just let him guide you out, down the hall, through the kitchen where Patrick stands, silent and unmoving. No one stops you. No one sees the tension in your spine, the way your fingers flex. No one notices the way Art glances over his shoulder just once- not at you, not at the party, but at Patrick. And Patrick doesn’t follow. He watches the door close with his jaw tight, hands in his pockets. Every muscle he has is locked like he’s holding himself together for something he knows he doesn’t have the right to. He will not go back to the room that night. He knows both of you will be there. Can’t stand it.

You shower quietly, water running longer than needed. You shower like you want it all to go away. You feel shit even when you finished, skin damp, wearing one of Art’s shirts, he’s already in bed, lamp on, watching. You don’t meet his eyes, but you climb in anyway. He doesn’t reach right away, just watches you pull the blanket up like it might cover anything. Then he moves. His hand slid in. You feel the soft touch on your skin. It’s slow. Gentle. Familiar. He’s grazing the softness of your stomach before it gets lower. You let him slip it between your legs and you got tense but you still continued with it. You don’t stop it. Makes you feel sick that you want it after just what happened with Patrick. “You’re always so quiet after parties,” he murmurs. His fingers press in, two at once, smooth, and you bite down on a breath. Your thighs twitch. “Still so warm,” he says. “So soft for me.”

His voice stays low. He doesn’t move his hand, just keeps it there, deep, surrounded by the evidence of what isn’t his. “I can’t tell if you’re like this because of me…” he adds, shifting, “or because someone else got to you first.” You open your mouth but say nothing. He curls his fingers, watching you flinch. Then he leans in, his breath grazing your cheek. “You let him fuck you raw?” You jerk like you might pull away, but he doesn’t let you. His other hand moves to your hip, holding you still. “That’s not a no.” He smiles, not angry, just satisfied. “That’s okay,” he whispers like it’s not fucked up. Like everything is alright. “You think Patrick left a mark?” His voice drops, darker, right at your ear. “You have no idea how long I can stay inside you.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. His voice stays calm, loving even- like when he teases you after class. Only now his fingers are inside you, his mouth near your ear, his thumb brushing your hip like reassurance, not control. He feels so gentle but you know that this is not gentleness, it’s his way of punishing you. “You could’ve just told me, you know,” he says softly and he kisses your shoulder. He’s peppering the skin he can touch with his lips with kisses. Soft and gentle. Forgiving even. “if you wanted to fuck my best friend.” He said like it’s decided already. His mouth grazes your jaw, exhaling your scent like a sigh, like he’s disappointed, not angry. “Next time tell me. It would’ve saved you the trouble of whoring yourself out for it.” And he pulls out his fingers from inside and just kisses your temple with all this sweet smile plastered on his face.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

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luvyeni · 2 days ago

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ꕥ TYRANT ⸝⸝⸝ j. sungchan !

[ req? yes / no ]

⧼ 📎 ⧽ 一 pairing。 ⸝⸝ jung sungchan x fem!reader 𓄵 genre。 contains! infidelity , unprotected sex , terrible sungchan and even terrible mc { back to library }

𝗦𝗖𝗘𝗡𝗘 ── everyone warned them … they warned her to watch him … they warned him to stay away …

𝕼 ㅤ𓈒ㅤ𓈒 yeni’s note .ᐟ why does my creative juices start to flow when writing morally fucked ppl … also this is based on tyrant by beyoncé i can’t get the song out my head…

hangman, answer me now you owe me a debt , you stole him from me …

they tried to warn her — everyone tried to warn her , “that girl is trouble” they told her. “she’s a maneater , she sinks her teeth into men , it doesn’t matter who.” she just laughed it off. “you laugh now , but she has eyes on your boyfriend and when she wants something , she gets it.” she should’ve listened, but sungchan always reassured her. “im not like those guys , she can’t take me away from you.” if only she’d listened , if only she kept and eye on you just a bit harder — if only she’d realized her boyfriend was just a man at the end of night.

sungchan thought he was different, that he couldn’t be moved. so when everyone voiced their concerns with the way you stared at him in clubs or parties. “bro she’s into you.” shotaro told him. “look, she’s practically fucking you with her eyes.” sungchan would just flag him off. “i have a loving girlfriend at home , i don’t need another girl to pleasure me.” he would say, and he really didn’t his girlfriend truly satisfied him — but there was something about you.

hide your man when the hangman come in town

succubus; is what people called you. girls clutched their boyfriends tightly whenever you were around . with the way you sunk your teeth into these men and took everything from them , leaving them with nothing but a few broken pieces for them to put back together — whether it was themselves… or a heart broken girlfriend.

you knew from the start sungchan would be easier than he thought he was. he was too reassuring to his girlfriend, it was like he was fighting himself every time he saw you , but he pretended that he was uninterested.. but that couldn’t be far from true.

she’s a tyrant every time i ride it, every time i ride it make it look so good, try to justify it

sungchan thought he was safe; that he couldn’t be swayed — now he could only think ‘how do i explain this to her?’ but his thoughts were completely ruined as your pointy stiletto nails grabbed his cheek. “that’s so cute.” you kissed his neck , he sighed. “even until now you’re thinking about her.” he moaned out as you sunk down on his hard length. “fu-fuck shut up.” he hissed as you rocked your hips back and forth. you let out a giggle — it angered him , it angered him so much. “why are you acting like i’m forcing you?” moaning out , your hands resting on his chest. “you want me to stop?”

he grabbed your hips. “do-don’t fucking stop.” with a smirk still planted on your smile , your hips moved fluidly. “fu-fuck you’re so big.” you moaned out. “fuck!” he cursed. “so fucking right.” he gripped your hips , his head thrown back as you began to bounce up and down on his cock. “fuck slow down before i fucking cum.” scraping your nails along his bare chest , your lips brushing against your ear. “that’s my goal baby.”

hands gripping your ass , he could hear his phone ringing over your moans , he knew who it was, he’d promised her that he’d call. “mmmh -shit- ignore it , she can wait.” you moved faster. “oh fuck.” he cursed. “make me cum.” you whined. “make me fucking cum.” his hand coming up to your throat , squeezing as he bucked up into you. “fuck fuck fuck!” he growled. “gonna fucking fill you up.” he was fucking you with everything he had in him— was it anger? lust? you didn’t know but you were reaching your peak. “sungchan, im gonna cum!”

“oh fuck!” your shaking legs as you felt him emptying himself inside you with a hiss , tightening his grip on your throat as you both rode out your highs , you gasped for air and he let you go. “fuck i’m sorry.” he said breathlessly , you laughed. “it’s all good, i loved that.”

you don’t stay ever , why would you? “we can’t do that again.” sungchan said , you just smiled. “okay.” was all you said putting on your shoes — his phone lighting up once again. you looked down at it , looking back at the boy. “you might want to answer that.” you said , making your exit , leaving the boy. he reached for his phone , cursing at 6 missed calls and 4 new messages.

‘sungchan? are you there?’ ‘someone said they saw you leave with her…’ ‘tell me it isnt true?’ ‘sungchan???’ ‘you promised me…’

“fuck!” he cursed , running his hands through his messy hair — your perfume still lingered on his sheets. your presence still wrapped around him , squeezing him like a python squeezes its victims.

he’d fallen right into your trap.

©️LUVYENI

#riize smut #riize x reader #riize fic #riize imagines #riize hard hours #riize hard thoughts #riize drabbles #sungchan hard thoughts #sungchan hard hours #sungchan fanfic #sungchan smut #sungchan x reader #sungchan fic #sungchan scenarios #sungchan imagines

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keelt9 · 2 days ago

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BET A MOLE, BET A KISS Pt.2

Masterlist // Pt.1

Nothing more relaxing than after 6 hours of sleep, a grosseri shopping in the morning; not the most healthy one.

Cookies, chips and some fruits too; after all it was a hard week. Plus Charlie is now at home too.

With a half of cookie in her mouth she realises in the hallway that goes to the living room, there is a black bag and brown suitcase.

“Morning.” Oscar perks from the stairs.

“You're here!” Y/N runs upstairs leaving the bags crash on the floor.

Oscar hates that she runs on stairs, she could fall or hurt, silly but that's what it is. “Don't ru…”

She crashes with him taking all his breath away, as he laughs.

“Hi.” Oscar said as she saw his face.

“Hi.” She has that cute smile on her face.

He notices next to his face there is a half red velvet cookie, causing her to giggle. “Really, you don't drop the cookie?”

“It's a delicious cookie.” Y/N eats the rest of the cookie, notices a strange sensation in her ribs.

Looking down she finally saw two markers, red and black.

“Are you doing something?” Y/N taking a step back.

“Well.” Oscar smiles to himself. “While I was winning, by the way…”

Every time, winning or not, Y/N makes sure to give him a special cuddle; sometimes it's a lovely hug, a face covered with kisses, refuse to leave his hands for as long as she can or his favourite, lately, that heart stop kiss.

Like now, a kiss that is hard not to follow for the way she puts her hands at both sides of his neck as he's set the pace of the kiss, first goes tender until he makes sure to remember in detail every curve of her lips on his.

“Congrats champ.” Y/N said before giving him a last peck. “So are you making something?”

“Oh, right, well, while I was flying back home an idea with a twist came to my mind.”

“Ok.” Y/N switches her face, she concentrates now.

“I want to bet my moles.” Y/N laughs, she didn't mention it because she wants to try it, only because that causes curiosity in her.

Y/N grabs his face, giving him a peck. “I didn’t say that with a purpose, you asked me what ignited my curiosity and that was.”

“I know, but I want to try it.” Oscar said, seeing her shake her head.

“Why markers?” She grabs it, thinking, are we serious about doing this?

“How could I know you’re not cheating?” Y/N scoff rolling the markers among her fingers.

“Waterproof?” She scoffed. “Are you actually planning this, huh?”

Oscar nods. “Ok, but first, I’m hungry and I just left 3 bags of chips on the floor, so we have a few things to do.”

After an improvised breakfast as a quick cleaning, they go to the room with the markers, conscious they’ll be there for a long time.

“Wait…” Y/N stops, placing both of her knees at the side of Oscar's waist. “What if I win…”

Oscar smiles, that’s a question that already has a clear answer. “We can’t do anything you want me to do for a week, so…I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

Y/N smirks. “Anywhere?”

“Anywhere.” She giggles.

Oscar touched the side of her thighs. “What if you win?”

“Oh, I want an honest answer and full will.” He licks his lips.

Y/N sighs. “My vacations are close, and for a month I won’t leave your side. Going to the race weeks isn’t that hard.” She leaned down to kiss his lips.

“It’s not about the race, it’s kind of dreamy from you thinking once you tell me you’re on vacation, I’ll leave you here.” Both of them giggle against each other's lips. “Nice try.”

Oscar loves having her like this, without worries, just relaxing as she plays with each other's words. Outside of those four walls, the world could collapse and still, he will be holding her tight, like now. Her hands holding his face as he holds her waist.

“Is something more than a 3 second decision.” Y/N narrows her eyes.

“Ok.” She opens the red market but Oscar realizes they miss an important specification.

“Wait, tell me your range.” He stretched his hands to take the noteblock she has in her night table, taking the black market too.

Y/N scoff. “Do we actually need to write it down?”

“It’s called being fair, my love.”

With names and numbers written down and glued to the headboard of the bed finally, the counting starts; with laughs, love touches and some of them are more naughty than others.

For Y/N it was hard to focus from time to time, on the other hand, Oscar enjoyed the moments where her face burns red and the teasing is enough for she smiles sitting back as she takes a deep breath getting her focus again.

Her touches are so delicate and precise that Oscar needs to take deep breaths too to concentrate, just for making sure she’s actually counting and not cheating, the perks of having a surgeon as a girlfriend.

“Done!” Y/N sat back on his lap raising her eyebrows.

“Who wins?” Oscar sits properly, refusing to leave her standing from his lap.

Y/N smirks, making Oscar impatient, when she lifts her eyes from the note she previously took where she writes the number, she tilts her head with a smile. “Are you sweating?”

“A little bit.” Oscar giggled. “Having your girlfriend all over your body kind of makes you sweat, you know?”

Y/N laughs but pouts. “I guess my dream trip must wait.” She turns around the note, the number that Oscar writes has a smiley face next to it.

Oscar sighs in relief, making Y/N push him softly due she misunderstands his sighs.

“It's not for that!” Oscar grabs her face and puts a kiss on her forehead. “Ready?”

Y/N nods with a calm face. “Remember to think about it deeply before answering, ok?”

“Oscar, I he…” Oscar takes out a small velvet bag from down on the pillow. “Do you have everything prepared, huh?” Y/N chuckles, still doesn’t get what the bag is related to the question.

“I have a good feeling about this.” She smiles but with a conflicted one, the circle shape marks in the tiny bag.

“You know I appreciate you giving me jewelry but…” She grabs his hands over the bag. “Most of the time my hands need to be free of everything and the tingle sounds on my neck are distracting but…”

“It’s not that type.” Oscar turns her hand making a delicate ring fall in the palm of her hand.

Y/N hiss as her heart beating increases, the beeping on her clock announces it, Oscar takes a deep breath, preparing himself.

“Y/N… D…”

“YES!”

Y/N grip the ring throwing her arms around his neck, not even letting him ask and more less thinking for more than 3 seconds, Oscar laughs holding the back of her head.

He softly whispers at her. “Can I at least ask you properly?” She laughs splitting, in her eyes are already tears but she takes a deep breath.

Oscar takes the ring of her hand. “Y/N, would like to …?”

Y/N sobs, nodding as Oscar softly puts the ring where it belongs, tingling his finger with hers.

“It was worth it, right?” Y/N wipes her tears with confusion. “Bet my moles.”

Y/N shakes her head laughing. “I love you so much.” She said kissing him over and over again.

“It’s not a soft lunch, NOT AT ALL!” Charles almost ripped his neck from Oscar's body, when he found it in Austria.

Oscar laughs consciously that outside of the building, a lot of cameras are waiting, not precisely for all the drivers.

“We haven’t said anything.” Oscar insisted for the 1947 time of the day.

“You hav…” Charles takes a deep breath seeing Albon walks and reaches them. “It’s not like you need it!”

“You post a story where you can clearly see her, so cute by the way…” He lifts his phone, showing him the screenshot he took.

Oscar laughs, shaking his head. “We were having breakfast, and, yeah, holding our hands.”

Charles bluffs. “I went with you to buy that ring, I know what it means!”

“Not counting the rock in the middle.” Albon chuckles seeing his phone. “Where is she? I want to congratulate her, well, both of you.”

“Somewhere in the hospital working.” Was the last words of Oscar before a swarm of drivers found him hugging him as they congratulated him for the big news.

They haven't said anything but a photo speaking more than a thousand words.

“Ok Oscar, take one last look please…” Tom mentions approaching him with a tablet in his hands with a mischievous smile on his face.

On the screen you can see Y/N arriving at the McLaren garage as under the line of her name you can read it, Oscar Piastri’s fiancé.

Oscar smirks as his cheeks turn pink. “Sadly you need to get into the car, like 10 seconds ago, so people make sure she is there when the race finishes.”

Oscar nods, putting the helmet on adjusting to his balaclava, going inside of the car, as people surround him.

Tom leans on the car. “Side note Oscar, it will be nice if you win this time.” Oscar's eyes narrow, a sign of a smile before Tom walks away to his spot.

“Box, box.” Y/N hears Tom's voice, as multiple mechanics run to their places with all they need.

Her anxiety began when the left back tyre wasn’t coming out, the sound of the cars passing and the anxious glances from the main console isn’t the most relaxing thing.

For the cameras you can see the mechanic hit the tyre a couple of times before finally coming off; quickly Oscar rushed himself reaching the rest of the cars, still, the clock of the pit stop set 3.5 seconds.

“Ok Oscar. Verstappen, Lando, George and Leclerc ahead. 13 laps remaining.” Tom mentions as the full team moves around the control panel setting the strategy that put him back in the first place.

In the first laps, Oscar passed Charles in one soft movement around a corner. Reaching George was tough, he had warm tyres and Oscar barely put him on temperature, still he managed to pass him seeing Lando so close; he could take the risk and push him or wait until the tyre warms, still 6 laps remaining. He pushes him, overtaking in a beautiful move that leaves Lando confused as Oscar passes at his left.

“Verstappen, 1.4.” Tom indicates Oscar. “Soft tyres.”

Oscar mumbles something as Y/N bites her nails, only 4 laps remind and Max is pushing trying to increase the gap.

“He will make it right?” Mark laughs seeing her walking to the limits of the wires allows her.

“OH! Max blocked him in the 2 corner!” Y/N hears, seeing the replay of Max blocks, closing the space in that corner for impeding the pass of Oscar.

Y/N mumbles twisting her fingers “Let’s go babe, three more laps.”

Max doesn't hesitate but he tends to let his emotions push him, in the straight he tries to increase the gap…until the car decides another thing, turning slippery causing him to lose for a second the car as Oscar pushes this time blocking the corner.

“I can’t see!” Y/N tries to cover her eyes leaving a gap between them observing the last laps, it’s like a pure haunting decided for .101 of difference.

When the flag waves, Oscar was the first one to cross that line.

“Great, great race Oscar, well done.” Tom congratulated him.

“Nice job guys.” Oscar's heavy breathing is heard. “Can you make sure my fiance is watching?”

Y/N's face is about to explode when she hears Oscar, hiding her face in her hands as Mark told her to follow the guys to the podium.

With the helmet on after celebrating with the team, Oscar walks to the left side where Y/N is waiting with a red face and wide smile.

She hugs him tightly as he laughs lifting her from the ground.

“That’s not a soft launch.” Y/N claims as Oscar takes the helmet off.

Y/N touches the lines of the helmet left on his face as Oscar giggles. “I can’t kiss my fiance properly with that.”

Y/N smiles as he leans capturing her lips in a soft kiss, hands on her waist as hers taking the helmet trying to cover their faces from the cameras, a small issue the ring is at plain sight for photos.

#f1 #oscar piastri x reader #f1 imagine #formula 1 #f1 x reader #oscar piastri fanfic #f1 fanfic #f1 x female reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri #op81 x reader

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satvrnsearth · 2 days ago

Text

satoru gojo x fem!reader, angst, bittersweet, unrequited-ish love

The word backburner wasn’t something the past you would ever use to describe yourself.

you were raised to believe in center stages, in spotlights. You were always taught to stand tall, to be confident. To not settle for being someone’s second option, someone’s safety net.

But the present you? You whisper that word to yourself like a secret title—bittersweet, but somehow earned.

Because you were his backburner.

Satoru Gojo’s.

And god, if that didn’t make it feel okay. If that didn’t make it feel worth it.

You'd liked him since middle school—back when he was still just the annoyingly cocky boy with too much energy and a smile that made your stomach flutter. Before he became the strongest. Before he carried the weight of the world and the hollow kind of loneliness that came with it.

Before she came into the picture.

You’ve been there through it all. Quietly. Loyally.

A hand he could always reach for in the dark.

Sometimes, it was easy to convince yourself that you mattered. That in his own way, he cared. That it wasn’t just habit, or convenience, or guilt.

Because he did care, didn’t he?

He came to you when the nights got too quiet. When the noise in his head grew louder than the world outside. When she broke his heart in the same way, over and over again, like a loop he couldn’t escape.

Tonight is no different.

The knock comes at 1:17 a.m.—a rhythm you've memorized by now. You don't even ask who's at the door. You already know.

Gojo steps in with that usual dramatic flair, even as exhaustion clings to his shoulders like a weighted cloak.

“Fought with her again,” he says, dragging his feet as he drops onto your couch like it’s his.

You offer him tea, warm and sweet. Your version of comfort.

He takes it with a half-smile, fingers brushing yours. His skin is cold.

“She doesn’t understand me,” he mutters, sipping slowly. “It’s like… I’m too much. Or not enough. Or maybe both.”

He laughs bitterly. “But you get it, don’t you?”

There it is again—that look. The one that steals the air from your lungs. The one that’s laced with something almost real.

Almost.

“Of course I do,” you say, because how could you not?

And so, like always, he stays. He curls into the couch, head resting on your lap like it’s second nature. You run your fingers through his hair like it doesn’t break you every time. He drifts off eventually, guarded walls down, trust laid bare in the shape of his quiet breathing.

You stare at the ceiling, too awake, too full of feelings you can’t name without crumbling.

In the morning, he’s gone.

He leaves before sunrise. Always does.

The only trace of him is the folded blanket, the used mug in your sink, and the ache in your chest that somehow feels heavier than it did the night before.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself this is enough.

Because for a few hours, you were the center of his universe.

The one he came to. The one who made him feel understood. The one who held the shattered pieces of him without ever asking for more.

But when you sit down at the edge of your bed, staring at the dent in the pillow where his head had been, the illusion cracks again.

You are not the main character in his story.

You are the backburner.

The warmth he returns to when everything else turns cold. The safe place. The emotional afterthought with a beating heart.

And still—you let him in.

Again, and again, and again.

Because when he looks at you like you’re the only person who’s ever truly seen him… it almost feels like love.

And for you?

Almost has always been enough.

୨୧ she's back smirksmirk 😎 sorry for the long, loooong hiatus. i'll just get back to writing like nothing happened. <3

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absurdthirst · 2 days ago

Text

Love on the 4th {Dave York x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 13.7k

Warnings: Military service, breakups, mentions of masturbation and porn, drinking, oral sex (male and female receiving), fingering, vaginal sex, cum play, fraternization, friends with benefits, fear of getting caught, mentions of pregnancy, reunions, surprise, feelings of missed opportunities,

Comments: When Dave gets a 'Dear John' letter from Carol while you're on deployment, the two of you decide to explore a physical relationship on the 4th of July. Only to have that change when he gets another message from her. Now, 22 years later, you meet again on the same holiday.

A/N: Happy 4th of July!

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

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|| MasterList || Dave York MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

Iraq: 2003

Location: Camp Blue Diamond

“Fuck, it’s too goddamn hot.” You roll your eyes at your rackmate as she peels off the sweaty undershirt and stands in front of the fan that does nothing more than move the hot air around your tent. The air’s broken, third time this week and you swear if it’s not fixed you are just going to demand to sleep in the Colonel’s quarters. He actually has a conex box that’s been outfitted to be his room. Solid walls and AC that works. “You know, you’d probably feel better if you went and showered.” You offer, but she just snorts and starts to unbuckle her belt, eager to climb out of her uniform and get into the rack. “I’m going to bed.” She moans, making you grimace slightly. Unable to understand how she could climb into her bunk dirty. You can’t do it, not even when you are exhausted from a patrol. Checking your watch, you know she wants some peace. Space to sleep without a roommate around. It’s why both of you working opposite shifts works so well for the both of you. “I’m going to get chow, you want anything?” She grunts, shaking her head and you just put your cover on and duck out of the tent, making sure to close the thick fabric so the oppressive desert heat doesn’t penetrate the instant darkness when she shuts off the lights. You’ll go get some food, and see what kind of shit you were in for today.

Dave watches you make your way into the mess hall. Everyone is buzzing this morning since it’s the 4th of July. Everyone is overflowing with patriotism, especially the newbies, and Dave digs into his breakfast with amusement at the conversations going on around him. His eyes drift over to the entrance and they widen slightly when he sees you walk in. You’re gorgeous, funny, smart - everything Dave wants but he’s with Carol. He likes Carol, maybe he could love her, but she seems more interested in his benefits and pay than him. He might break up with her when he gets home but until then, he enjoys the photos he sends her and the sexy letters.

The chow line is pretty quick today, the eggs less watery than normal and there is actual bacon on the line. “Fuck yeah.” You huff to yourself, deciding to grab a piece of cherry pie too. You could fucking die today, might as well have pie for breakfast. You pick up two Rip-It’s and shove one of them into your pocket for later before you carry your tray over to the table where some of the guys to loosely work with and hang around are sitting. “Morning fuckers.” You joke, smirking when Rodriguez shoots you a bird. “How did you assholes sleep?”

“Fucking awful as usual. It’s goddamn hot and I don’t even know how to cool down anymore. I think I’m just gonna be overheated for the rest of my fucking life.” Jackson groans, setting his fork down. “Who the fuck knows when I will get to put my A/C to 65 and just - just freeze. I don’t remember the last time I was cold.” Rodriguez grunts and Dave snorts, “pretty sure your old lady froze you out your last night stateside.” Rodriguez scoffs, “asshole. She was pissed I was being deployed again. What was I supposed to say? Sorry baby, lemme tell Uncle Sam to go fuck himself so I can drive you to your goddamn nail appointment. Your lady keeping things hot, York?” He asks Dave who chuckles, “she sends me shit. Keeps me entertained.”

You flash a smile that hides the jealousy. The little thing you have for York hasn’t seemed to go away. He’s got this hold on you that you can’t explain but you’ve never acted on it. Never even hinted that you liked him beyond the friendly banter and comradery. “What about you?” Jackson is nosey and he leans forward. “You never talk about your man. What’s he doing while his girlfriend is off to war?” You chuckle and clear your throat as you pop the top on your first energy drink of the day. “He wrote me a ‘Dear Jane’ letter.” You admit, making Jackson twist uncomfortably and look down at his plate. “Aw shit, I didn’t know, I’m sorry.” The other guys murmur apologies but you shrug them off. “It was a month after we got here.” You tell them. “I’m over it. He can fuck Jody all he wants. Catch the clap or whatever. His dick wasn’t big enough to miss that badly.”

The guys all chuckle and Dave rocks his jaw. He wants you to be happy but damn if he isn’t a little jealous at the idea of some guy making you his. It’s wrong. He has Carol but he’s thought about it. “He’s a fucking idiot. Not waiting for you? Fucking fool.” Jackson scoffs and the others agree but Dave stays quiet.

“It is what it is.” You say and every single person at the table repeats it. “It is what it is.” It’s almost become your mantra this deployment. A way to deal with the bullshit and try to stay sane. “Anyway. Enough of that shit.” You take a sip of your drink before picking up your fork to eat your pie. “What are we doing today?”

They all eye you as you eat the pie, some in attraction, some in admiration that you’re straight up having dessert for breakfast. “Mission brief at 0800. Prepare for Thursday. They know we won’t be worth shit tomorrow morning after tonight.” Jackson says, knowing you will all celebrate the 4th.

“Too bad there’s no alcohol.” You huff, cutting your eyes over to York. “Right?” You ask innocently, completely aware that he has some bottles that he managed to tactically acquire from somewhere and had stashed away. Tonight was the perfect night to crack into that supply.

He smirks, “right. Unless someone procured a few bottles of vodka and whiskey.” He says innocently, well as innocently as he can as he taps his fingers on the table. “Maybe we can all meet over by the communications tent to have our own celebration.”

You grin as you fork up some eggs. “That sounds perfect.” You agree, knowing that it might be breaking all the rules and risking getting NJP’d, but you all deserve to take it easy and cut loose. “Shit,” your eyes widen. “We also have mail call today.”

Dave hums, wondering if Carol has sent him another naughty letter. His only source of release apart from the fantasies he has about you. He knows he shouldn’t but he can’t help it. “Expecting a love letter?” Jackson teases you, “maybe now your ‘Dear Jane’ will be a ‘Fuck Me When You Get Home Jane’.”

“Fuck no.” You snort, shaking your head. “If a guy breaks up with me, that’s it. No second chances.” You’ve seen too many girls get suckered into a toxic cycle with guys and you won’t be one of them. “My mom said she was sending a package for the Fourth.” You grin. “She included cookies.”

“Damn. Your mom makes the best damn cookies. I swear she puts crack in them.” Rodriguez groans, excited to have some cookies for the 4th. There’s nothing more patriotic than serving your country but everyone misses home a little more on holidays.

“After the brief, I’ll go pick up the mail for everyone and meet back?” You’ve basically got to hang out at the guys tent that they share. You only have one roommate, where they are four to a tent. “Although we aren’t eating the cookies now.” You warn them playfully.

They all groan in protest and Dave chuckles, his eyes meeting yours across the table. You are one of the boys but he doesn’t see you that way. He picks up his fork, digging back into his food, and he buries those desires. He has Carol and he’s here to serve his country, not fuck someone.

****

“York, you got some titty pics this time? My stash is getting boring. Need something new in the rotation.” Jackson teases as Dave opens his letter, snorting at his friend and fellow soldier. “You’re not stealing my photos. I’ll get them back with fucking stains on them.” Jackson howls, “you know me too well.” Dave chuckles and unfolds the letter. No photos. He frowns at the formal, “Dear David” at the beginning, starting to read it and he’s certain his expression darkens as he gets through the letter. Everyone is engrossed in their own mail until Dave hears you say “everything okay, York?” Dave flicks his eyes to you after reading “Sincerely, Carol.” He sighs, “uh, I, um - I just got dumped.” He holds up the letter, “Carol sent me a Dear John.”

“Fuck.” You breathe out softly, feeling horrible for him and hating how there was a flicker of happiness deep inside you. You hate it. You shouldn’t be happy Dave just got his heart broken. He’s not gonna be interested in you just because Carol dumped him. “I’m sorry.” You reach out and touch his arm for just a second. “She’s a fucking idiot. Let me guess, ‘I’m so lonely’.” You intone a falsely feminine voice. “Like you aren’t out here in the suck with your dick in your hand.”

You aren’t great at consoling someone, so you break your own rule and open up your box to offer Dave some candy. The cookies are still stashed at the bottom, but you remember that he likes peanut M&Ms so you give him the bag your mom had put in your package.

Dave looks at the bag of M&Ms, thanking you as he takes them. He will get you something to thank you later. "She, uh, she said she couldn't wait for me because she wants to live her life and she doesn't agree with the war. Bullshit, huh? Suddenly she's Yoko Ono." He rolls his eyes but he must admit to himself he's a little hurt. He likes things to be done on his terms and Carol dumping him by letter is not what he'd want. He feels like she's had the control and he does not like being out of control. He hates it. "Guess we really do need to get the booze out." Jackson says and the others all nod, "sorry man. Letter? That shit is rough." Dave snorts, "at least it got me M&Ms."

You chuckle and that leads to the other guys crowding around your package, eager to steal shit but you don’t give them anything. Promising the cookies later, you are laughing at their exaggerated pouts although you keep looking over at Dave. You can tell he’s processing everything and he’s not happy with the way the day has turned out. “Heard we’re getting the old steak and lobster tonight.” You tell them. “But one of the cooks told me that there’s also going to be pizza and shit on a shingle.” It looks disgusting, but SOS is amazing on some toast.

“Trying to keep us happy so we don’t bitch about the next assignment?” Jackson snorts, “I, for one, will be enjoying steak and lobster like a true American should on the 4th.” He chuckles and everyone starts to discuss the food but Dave is busy fiddling with the letter, his jaw clenched. Fucking Carol. He wasn’t even in love with her. Why is this bothering him so much?

“Rah.” You grunt at him, making the others chuckle but Dave is off in his own little world. None of you press him, knowing that he needs time, but you don’t rag him as hard as you would normally. Dave is often closed off, there’s things going on inside that mind of his that you are curious to get a look out. His ability to detach from the situation has been killer when you’ve been in the shit, but you worry about him. You see him look down at the letter and then glance up at you, wondering if he wants to talk about it with someone who knows what he’s going through.

****

“To fucking America. Red, white and blue baby! America. Fuck yeah!” Jackson holds up his glass of whiskey to the group who are sitting around by the communications tent. Dave chuckles, shaking his head in amusement. He never felt the need to be loudly patriotic. He’s serving his country. That speaks for itself.

“I swear to God, if we get caught drinking because of Jackson, I’m going to put a camel spider in his fucking rack.” You huff, coming back from pouring yourself another drink and you sit back down next to Dave. He’s been more quiet than usual, which would alarm some, but you know that he’s just a little down. “How are you doing?” You ask quietly, not wanting the other to overhear. If Dave wants to talk, he will, but you don’t want the drunken idiots to start bringing it up unless he wants to bitch about Carol.

Dave sighs, having a sip of his drink, "I dunno." He answers honestly, "pissed that she dumped me over a damn letter. Annoyed that I didn't do it first." He confesses which makes you raise your eyebrows. "She's - it was over before I left." He admits, "she wants the house and 2.5 kids. The Mercedes SUV and I - I don't know what I want." He leans back in his seat, "kinda need a distraction but blowing something up is off the books for the time being."

You snort and take a sip of your own drink. “Getting drunk seems like a good idea.” You offer but Dave shakes his head. “Fuck no.” He grunts. “Knowing my luck, the fuckers will use the fireworks to start fucking shelling us.” He reminds you. “My ass isn’t listening to the sirens drunk.” He’s got a fair point, that shit sucks sober. You sigh. “Well, what would distract you?”

Dave huffs, “I don’t know. Booze won’t do it. You know what I need?” He asks and you frown, shaking your head. “I need a good fuck. Someone to just completely lose myself in. Stop all the goddamn thoughts in my head for a bit.” He waves his hand next to his head.

“Hell, York.” You smirk slightly as you take another sip of your drink. “You should have suggested something reasonably unobtainable.” You joke, making him frown at you. “What the fuck are you talking about?” He huffs, thinking you are making fun of him. “I’m talking about the fact that 90% of the women on this base would fuck you.” He snorts in disbelief and you nod. “Those little Air Force nymphos have all been talking about the hot Marine in my unit. Begging for information.” You hadn’t given them shit, mainly because you were jealous. So you told them he was outrageously in love with Carol and didn’t look at other women.

Dave snorts, “they’re not my type.” He says and you tilt your head, “all of them? Surely of them has to be.” He shakes his head, “pretty hard to want to fuck a zoomie when I got the most beautiful woman on this fucking base sitting next to me right now.” He says, turning his head to look at you.

It’s a smooth line, and if it were anyone else, you would think it was a line. Said just for the sole purpose of getting in your pants. However, this is Dave. Underneath the dark, bloodiness, is a man who’s pretty fucking honest about what he wants. The heat in his eyes isn’t faked, he wants you. Your stomach clenches and you feel yourself already starting getting wet from the thought of having him. “Well.” You bide your time and finish your drink before setting it down on the sand in front of you. “My tent mate is working tonight.” You tell him with a small wink before you raise your voice to get the others' attention. “I’m hitting the rack!” You call out, ignoring their groans and comments about you being a buzzkill. “Shut up, I’m going to bed.”

He watches you go without saying a word. His cock already starting to harden in his pants, and he bites his lip for a moment until he downs the last of his whiskey. “I’m gonna head out too. Wanna get rid of the photos of Carol.” He explains and Jackson groans, “can we have them?” He jokes and Dave growls, “goodnight.” He strides off, taking the long way around until he’s standing by your tent. He shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t touch you, but you invited him and fuck, he’s wanted you for so long. He taps on the flap before he pulls it aside to enter your tent.

“Hey.” You’ve been expecting him. Changing out of the utilities you had been wearing, without your blouse. Making sure you hit the hot spots with a baby wipe and your wash rag. You’ve not been gross today, but it never hurts to freshen up. You’re sitting on your bed in your PT shorts, a t-shirt and you had left your bra on for a little mystery. Dave steps inside and glances around. “She’s at work all night. Won’t be coming back.” You smirk. “So there’s no chance that she will catch us.”

He nods, pleased that you won't be interrupted and he shifts to take off his boots, bending down to undo the laces. He's methodical, setting them aside and standing up after pulling off his socks. "You had too much to drink for this?" He asks, wanting you to be of clear mind.

“Two drinks.” You shake your head. “I solemnly swear that I will very enthusiastically fuck you, Dave York.” You hold your fingers up like you are making a Girl’s Scouts Promise. Giggling to yourself when he rolls his eyes. “I want to fuck you, Dave. Believe me.”

He nods, pleased that you want him, and he wants you. Fuck, he wants you. He smirks, watching you as you look at him with innocent eyes despite your words. "Then strip off. I wanna see you."

You could argue just to annoy him, but you honestly are too eager to have him touch you to do that. Standing up, you pull your shirt over your head and drop it down to the thick canvas floor of the tent. Leaving you in your functional bra and shorts. Watching him watching you as you reach behind your back to unclasp the hooks.

He watches, not touching you, and when you drag your bra down your arms to expose your tits, he can't stop the groan that escapes his lips. "Holy shit." He murmurs, "you're-" He strides forward, his hands finding your waist to drag you against him as he surges forward to press his lips to yours.

His unspoken words have to be good, considering how desperate the kiss is. His tongue pushing inside your mouth and eagerly mapping it, fingers digging into your flesh above the shorts and his other hand immediately cups your tit.

He loves how you feel in his hands, pliable and eager. He groans into your mouth, caressing your tongue with his. He's hungry for you and he lets that bleed into his touch. His fingers pinch your nipple, making you gasp into his mouth, and he grunts. His cock hardening in his pants even more for you.

You don’t let him take complete control, your fingers pulling at his belt. Wanting to strip him out of the desert cammies. The pants and the shirt, standing between you and his skin. You unbutton the top button before you tug at the tightly tucked in top. His skin is hot, smooth as you run your hands up his chest.

"Fuck." He pants, "take what you want, baby. I promise you, I'll make you remember tonight." He promises, "you won't forget it." He leans in to kiss along your neck while you caress his chest.

You hum in amusement, pushing back and starting to pull down his pants and then you strip down your shorts. Dropping down to your knees and smirking up at him. “I think we’re both going to remember tonight.”

He looks down at you, a smirk on his face when you work on opening his pants. “Oh I know we are, baby.” He promises, caressing your cheek, and he is aching in his pants.

It takes you a moment before you are staring at his cock. It’s large and impressive, jutting up hard and already dripping with need. “Fuck, she’s an idiot.” You groan, reaching out and wrapping your fingers around his length to start to pump him gently. Your cunt clenches and you want nothing more than to take him into your mouth, so you lean forward and do exactly that.

He groans, hoping he’s not musky from a day around base but your moans make him think he’s fine as you wrap your lips around him. “Jesus Christ.” He hisses in bliss. Your mouth is hot and wet. He can only imagine what your pussy is going to feel like around his length. “Fuck baby. That’s - that’s good.” He grunts, cupping your cheek to look down at you.

Your eyes are filled with sass as you take him deeper. Lips stretched around his shaft and you hold the base of him. The other hand is in his hip, holding him steady as you start to bob your head.

The way you look at him has his cock twitching in your mouth. You look like this is all you wanted. To suck him off. It makes his stomach clench and he inhales deeply, “look at you? Sucking my cock so prettily.” He coos, not rocking his hips because he doesn’t want to overwhelm you.

You swallow around him, watching his mouth drop open and you move your hand from his hip down to cradle his balls gently. He’s already groaning in pleasure, although you appreciate him keeping it down so no one walking by would hear.

“Shit. You’re gonna make me cum if you keep doing that. It’s been too damn long, sweetheart.” He grunts, squeezing his eyes shut to try and control himself. It’s been two months since he left the States and for a man who enjoys sex, he’s pent up.

You pull off of him with a smirk and lick your lips. “Can’t have that, can we?” You ask, squeezing him gently. “How are you gonna fuck me if you blow your load now?”

He looks down at you, opening his eyes, and he chuckles. “Exactly. Now, get on the fucking bed.” He demands, grunting when you squeeze him one more time until you shuffle away from him to stand up. He shoves his pants down his legs, stripping off the rest of his clothes so he’s naked and when you’re on the bed, he hooks his fingers in your shorts to drag them down your legs.

You never wear panties under your shorts. There’s no need to with the mesh lining and it keeps you cooler. So now you are just as naked as he is. “I’m still on my birth control.” You admit. “Period regulation.”

He trusts you with his life so he definitely trusts you to be smart with birth control. "Fuck. You're so pretty." He murmurs, caressing your legs as he shifts to kneel on the bed between your legs. His touch slides higher until he is caressing your folds with his calloused fingers. "So wet. What got you so wet, sweetheart?" He asks, tilting his head.

“Sucking your dick.” You admit shamelessly. “Turned me on thinking about how thick your cock is and how good you will feel inside me.” You reach up to palm one of your breasts. “Thought about you fucking me more than a few times when I was using my little magic finger vibrator.”

He slides his fingers further into you, caressing your clit with his fingertips and he watches you. “Yeah? Goddamn. You’re filthy. Knew it though. The way you look in uniform. Fucking devil in disguise.” He smirks, rubbing your clit a little faster.

You moan softly, careful to keep your voice down, but you know he likes the way you sound. His cock twitches and his eyes keep drifting down, watching his fingers play with your pussy. “Fuck, Dave.” You whimper softly, eyes closing as you grind down on his hand. “Want you inside me.”

He knows you need to be stretched out to take him so he slides his fingers lower, pushing two thick digits into your cunt. His cock twitches violently at how tight you are around his fingers, how wet and hot you feel. “Shit. Want you to cum like this first.”

You moan softly, watching him as he starts to curl his fingers to find that sweet spot that makes you whimper. His fingers are thick and longer than you realized, making it a short search before you are gasping out his name and grabbing his hand. “There.”

He nods, a smirk on his face at how wrecked you already look, and he pumps his fingers a little faster to hit that spot. His thumb twists so he can press it to your clit, needing to feel you soak his fingers.

You had halfway expected Dave to be a little selfish. To be in a rush to be inside you. He doesn’t get anything from this but you are loving it. Getting wetter by the second and you have to press your hand over your mouth when a moan gets too loud. Feeling how he is working you up methodically. Wanting you to fall apart for him.

He can feel how close you are, the way you arch up into his touch, and he desperately wants you to cum for him. "Come on, sweetheart. Soak my fingers. I know you can do it." He groans, pushing them into you a little faster, your pussy squelching in response.

“Dave.” You choke out his name right before your vision goes blurry. Body tensing and tightening, lurching up as your walls clench down around his finger and that little ball of tension in your core snaps.

He groans your name, working you through it, and he fucking loves the way your back arches up into his touch until your hips lower and you almost try to push his touch away. "You okay, baby?" He asks, slowly pulling his fingers out of you to wrap them around his cock. He slowly pumps himself, "you sure?" He asks, wanting to make sure you want this.

You nod breathlessly. “Yes.” You reach for him. “I want you inside me. So badly.” You watch him stroke his cock. “Fuck me. Lose yourself in me and fuck away all the hurt, the anger.” You smirk. “Forget about that bitch in my pussy.”

Your words make him growl and he shuffles closer until he can notch his cock at your entrance. "Fuck. Don't want to think about anything but your pretty pussy around my cock." He confesses as he drags the head of his length through your folds until he is notched at your entrance. His dark eyes flick up to you as he starts to push into you.

It’s not a sharp snap of his hips. He’s not driving into you as if he’s going to break you in half. It’s almost slow. Almost. There’s desperation to the way he sinks into you that has you lunging up to press your lips to his. Moaning as he bottoms out inside you.

He groans your name, pushing into you a little harder without realizing it as his hips buck. "Fuck. You - shit - you feel so goddamn good." He pants against your mouth, caressing your thigh until he growls, his tongue immediately sliding into your mouth.

He can’t deny you anything when you beg him so sweetly. His cock pushing deeper, faster, harder into your dripping pussy, and he fucking loves it. He groans, fingers digging into your back as he gives you everything he has.

The cot creaks, groaning under the pressure of his thrusts. Stiff and perfect to fuck on. It gives just enough to make it a ride. Your legs wrap around him, but it’s not like those days you were dressed and practicing combat training. Your walls clench down around his length as he drives into you again and again. Loving how frantic it’s getting.

He groans, loving how you react to him. It’s fucking perfect. He pants into your neck, pressing kisses and nibbling the delicate skin. The only sounds are grunts, your whines, and skin slapping. He is lost to the rhythm of his hips, pushing deep over and over again.

“Dave, Dave, fuuuuuuuck.” Your whines are quiet, meant for his ears only. “That is - you’re fucking amazing.” Your fingers drag down his back, down to his ass. Grabbing it and urging him on.

He shifts his hips, wanting to find the spot that makes you scream his name. He keeps shifting until he hears you cry out. “Shit. There!” You squeal and he chuckles, “shhh. You gotta be quiet, sweetheart.” He orders, keeping his hips at the angle for you.

You smash your lips against his, desperate to keep quiet but you know that he’s just determined to make you scream. His thrusts are hard, deep, pushing into your guts like he has you folded in half but he’s just that perfect for you. “So close.” You pant against his lips. “So close baby.”

He grunts, needing to make you in on his cock. Dave keeps thrusting, keeping the rhythm and depth that you like, needing to watch and hear you fall apart for him. “Fuck. Cum for me, baby. Wanna hear it. Feel it.” He orders in your ear.

You can feel that his rhythm is made of extreme effort. He wants to let up, to change the pace but he refuses. Huffing and puffing his way through every thrust because it makes you tense. Finally that last push, the thrust that grinds deep, sends you over the edge. You bite down on his shoulder to muffle your scream as you start to buck and shake under him.

He hisses at your teeth in his flesh but he fucking loves how you soak him. “Goddamn.” He mutters. “Fuck. That’s it, baby so fucking tight. Jesus.” He feels so lost by the sensation and he grunts as he adjusts the pace to work you through it but finds what feels good for him.

“Dave….” You practically sob his name, your body swimming in pleasure as all you can do is hold on to him. “Dave.” You know that this is going to happen every fucking chance you get now. His cock is amazing, he’s amazing. You kiss along his shoulder. “Your turn. Cum for me.” You beg.

He pants, wishing he could last longer but you feel too fucking good. He grunts as he thrusts into you. One, two, three more times before he pushes deep, burying his cock inside your cunt as he twitches while painting your walls with his cum.

He looks gorgeous falling apart. Jaw tense, neck strained. The dark, possessive look in his eyes one that makes you him as you lean up to kiss his lips and along his jaw. Cooing that it feels so good as he rides out his orgasm.

He pants, eyes squeezed shut as he fills you up with his cum until he’s spent. Collapsing onto his forearms above you, he leans in to softly kiss you. “Fuck, that was exactly what I needed.”

You giggle quietly, knowing that you definitely needed it as well. “Good.” You hum, kissing him again. “I needed it too.” You admit. “It was fucking amazing baby. She’s a fucking idiot.”

Dave shakes his head, “who?” He teases with a smirk and you giggle, caressing his cheek. “I better get back before people notice I’m missing.” He murmurs, “but I want to do this again…if you do.” He adds, “only if you do.”

You huff and roll your eyes. “I absolutely do.” You promise after your grin settles into something softer. “I- I like you Dave.” You confess softly. “Always have. That doesn’t mean I want you to jump into anything with me beyond this.” You add quickly, not wanting him to think you want to rush a relationship. “But I want to spend more time with you.”

Dave nods, “me too. I’d like that.” He slowly pulls out of you, shifting to kneel on your cot. “Let’s see what happens but id like to fuck you again. Definitely helped me forget that stupid goddamn Dear John letter.” He scoffs as he caresses your leg, watching his cum well up inside you.

You sigh softly. “It’s a really shitty thing to do.” You agree. “Although it’s not like we aren’t back home.” You remind him. “We are out here in this sandpit.” Reaching out, you caress his shoulder. “Fuck you are handsome.” You blurt out, smiling when he smirks at you.

He snorts, “you’re gorgeous. Seriously, I’m shocked you’re out here fighting when you could be married and snapped up back at home.” He caresses your cheek, “instead you’re out here fighting for some bullshit war.”

“Free college.” You shrug. “Although I’m not like the rest of the whiny brats that are marching around here talking about how they didn’t join the military to go to war.” You had been annoyed by it, but you didn't say anything.

He chuckles, “I came here because - well, I lost a friend in 9/11. He was in the north tower and I- I wanted revenge I guess. Stupid now that I’m here and see what’s happening.” He confesses, “I’m here to serve my country.” He was angry, frustrated, and bought into the propaganda that the Bush administration pushed about how Sadam Hussein has weapons of mass destruction. “Still, I’m here to do a job. So that’s what I’ll do.” He doesn’t confess that he likes the act of losing himself in the job. The way his mind focuses.

“You’re a good Marine.” You tell him honestly. “It’s one of those things, you’re good at what you do. And there’s no one I’d rather have beside me in a fight.” You reach out and touch his shoulder. “No one.”

Dave is happy at your assessment, a little smug if he’s honest, and he knows it’s because it’s you saying it. He values your opinion more than you know. “You’re a damn good Marine too. You’ve got my back. I trust you.” He promises, leaning in to kiss your forehead, “I better get back before it gets too late.” He says and shuffles off the cot to reach for his clothes.

You aren’t offended, knowing the guys will demand to know where he was and you can’t get caught sleeping together. You’d both be disciplined. “That sounds good.” You tell him. “I’m going to take a shower and then hit the rack.” You sit up and watch him redress. It doesn’t take him long, so used to jumping in and out of your cammies at a moment's notice. “Night, York.”

He winks at you before he ducks out of your tent, "sweet dreams, baby." He strides across the base, sand kicked up by his boots as he absorbs the fact that he just fucked you and he desperately wants to do it again. He wants you in his cot, wrapped around his cock. "Shit." He mutters, running his fingers across his cheek, "Carol who?" He mutters to himself and smirks, pleased that the Dear John letter led to someone even better.

****

The next morning, you are out early, your excuse was they had fixed your AC during the day before so you got to sleep in the cool air. The truth was that you were eager to see Dave. Hoping that the time apart hadn’t changed things for him, you don’t think he’s the type to fuck around. He doesn’t with anything else, so why would he risk his career? You enter the chow hall and don’t see them, so you go grab a tray to load up.

Dave looks up when he sees you enter the chow hall. His stomach is twisting and he hopes you don't regret last night. He certainly doesn't. He wants to do it again. He wants you again. You smile when your eyes meet his and his chest tightens but he shoves that aside. Dave doesn't really do emotions. Especially not here. Jackson spots you a few seconds later, waving you over.

“Hey boys.” You grin as you sit down right across from Dave after finishing going through the line. “You didn’t get too drunk after I left, did you?” You can tell some of them feel like shit, blinking slowly and trying not to be too obvious that their skulls are split in two and hammering like a war drum.

Jackson waves his hand again, silently begging you to be quiet even though you’re not shouting. Dave chuckles and Rodriguez shushes him. “Good thing we don’t have target practice today.” Dave smirks, watching as you sit opposite him and he quickly winks at you.

“Should have gone to bed.” You chided smirking at Dave. “See, York and I were good. We went to bed and now we are perky and ready for anything.” You tease. “What are you going to do if the sirens go off right now?” It had actually been a little shocking there hadn’t been any rockets fired on the base because the enemy knew it was an important American holiday.

The guys all scoff, “whatever. You didn’t have as much fun as we did.” Jackson tries to save face but Dave looks at you with a chuckle, “oh I think we had plenty of fun. Just enough to make sure we showed up without a headache.” You grin and Dave nudges your boot with his under the table.

You glance at him again and then back down at your plate. Not wanting to give away the game even though they aren’t being particularly observant right now. “Whatever.” Jackson scoffs. “Just- be quiet.”

Dave is tempted to bang his spoon on his tray but he refrains, nodding before forking up some eggs. He accidentally scraps the metal on metal and the others groan, making him chuckle. He definitely will suffer through their moodiness today if he gets to see you smile like that.

You giggle quietly as you eat the sausage gravy over a biscuit. “Eat your food.” You encourage. “It’ll help you get over that pounding headache from being too free last night.”

The boys all grumble and Dave snorts, glad that you didn’t let him drown his sorrows in alcohol.

****

“Jesus Christ, baby.” Dave grunts as he thrusts into you, his fingers digging into your hips as he kneels behind you on your cot. The cot creaks but he doesn’t care, lost in the sensation of your pussy.

“Fuck.” You drag your pillow closer and bite down on it, trying to muffle your sounds. The harsh sound of slapping skin is enough to give away what’s happening in your tent but you don’t really care right now. Too close to cumming on Dave’s cock again after thinking about it all day long. You clench around him, making him hiss and his fingers turn bruising on your hips.

“Fuck yes that’s it, sweetheart. Give it to me. Fuck, pussy gets so tight when you cum.” He growls, “wanna feel it.” He demands, smacking your ass even though it’s risky. You can be heard from outside but right now, he’s too pussy drunk to care

You cry out into the pillow, that stinging ska pushing you over the edge. You come apart, locking down around his cock so hard that it nearly stops his thrust. A flood of your juices coating him, soaking him as your hips push back and you grinds against him.

“Holy shit.” He hisses when your juices splash on his thighs and he gives you a moment. He stops thrusting because he can’t, you’re squeezing him so tight. “Fuck, this pussy is so goddamn good, baby.” He murmurs, “got me so fucking hard. Gonna make me cum. You want me to cum in you?” He asks and you nod, panting. He tuts, wrapping his fingers around your neck to drag you back against his chest, “I didn’t hear you.”

“Fuck.” You try to catch your breath, but you can’t help but turn your head to kiss along Dave’s jaw. “Yes baby.” You whine softly when he squeezes gently to remind you to answer. “Cum in me. Fill me up.” You beg, loving the way it feels when you have Dave’s cum between your thighs. Both of you are clean and he’s the only man you’ve fucked since you’ve been here. Reaching back, you wish his hair was long enough to pull, but the regulations keep it shorter than what your fingers could grip. “Cum baby, wanna see you cum.”

He grunts into your neck, fingers gripping the flesh enough to make you gasp, and he hammers into you. It’s a brutal pace that takes your breath away until he lets out a strangled groan, pushing deep and stiffening behind you while his cock pulses. Twitching as he releases spurt after spurt of cum against your walls.

You moan his name, soft enough that on he can hear you. Holding onto his neck and arm where’s he’s holding you tight. “Fuck I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of this.” You confess breathlessly. It’s been a few days of sex every night, the playful banter of the friendship you already making this so much better than your last few relationships. Dave lowers you down to your cot and pulls out of you. It’s been fun to discover that he enjoys watching his cum drip out of you. Always suspecting he has a little bit of a fetish with cum play.

He groans, caressing your legs as he watches his cum well up and threaten to push out of you until he pushes it back in with two thick digits. “Goddamn.” He mutters, “how the fuck has it gotten better?” He asks, almost to himself but his dark eyes flick to yours.

“Practice.” You tease, grinning back at him and letting him play with you pussy. Dave likes being in control in bed and you like letting him. However, you have discovered the man has to bite down on his fist to stop making noises when you suck on his balls during a blow job. “You gotta get back right away or you wanna stay for another round?” You ask.

He sighs, patting your thigh, “I gotta get back.” He doesn’t expand on his reason, “I have a briefing.” He doesn’t tell you that he’s being considered for a different unit - something more classified. “See you later, sweetheart.” He murmurs, shifting to kiss your lip until he shuffles off your bed to grab his things.

You watch him get dress as you lean back against your pillow. When his blouse is buttoned, you smirk at him. “See you later, York.” You hum as you wink playfully. “See you at chow. We are supposed to be leaving early, so don’t let Johnson stay up too late, wanking it to porn.”

He snorts, “I’ll try not to.” He winks at you as he ties his boots and within moments, he’s ducking out from the tent to head back to his own.

****

He sighs, letter in hand as he approaches your tent. You asked him to come over again and he was eager until he received his mail. “Come in.” You call out and he enters your tent. You rush over to him, wrapping your arms around his neck to drag him in for a kiss but he gently pushes you away. “I- we need to talk.” He says and you pull back with a frown. “Sit down.” He orders softly.

That doesn’t sound good. Anxiety twisting in your stomach as you sit down on your cot. You had been ready to strip down and touch him, but you fold your hands in your lap. “What’s wrong?” You ask, knowing it has to be something. Everything had been good when you had left the guys.

He swallows harshly, pulling the letter from his side. “I- I got a letter from Carol. She - she told me she’s pregnant. It’s mine. We, well, the night before I deployed and that was two months ago. She just found out. I’m, uh, I gotta do the right thing and so when I get back, I’m going to marry her. So this - me and you - can’t happen anymore. I’m sorry.”

Your eyes widen and you look back and forth from the letter back to Dave. “Pregnant?” You gasp out and he nods, his face set in that stubborn way that tells you he’s made up his mind. Even if you wanted to argue, you wouldn’t be able to change his mind. “O-okay.” You mumble quietly, trying to hide how much this hurts. You had something good and now it seems like that’s over. “You’ve got to do the right thing,” you agree.

Dave sighs, wishing this wasn’t his reality but he knows Carol and he knows she wouldn’t lie about being pregnant. She said she’s keeping it and he’s not even sure what he wants but he has to do the right thing. “I’m so sorry. I just - fuck. I don’t want to end this but I have to.” He confesses, rubbing his cheek.

“You do what you have to do.” You murmur softly, not reaching for him like you might have just a few moments ago. You sigh and nod, “then we just pretend like the last couple of weeks haven’t happened.” You offer. “We are perfectly capable of being professional.”

He sighs, “I, uh, wanted to talk to you about that too. They’re moving me. To another unit. I’m not - I’m going to another base.” He confesses, not able to give you more information and he hates it but this will help his career.

“Oh.” You swallow harshly and give a small, dry laugh. “Perfect timing, I guess.” You don’t want to sound bitter, but you’re afraid that it might come out that way from the way his wince tightens slightly. “Well, when are you leaving?”

“Tonight.” He murmurs, looking down at the letter in his hands, and his eyes flick back up to yours. He sees the hurt in them and he hates it. “I- I’m sorry. I know this isn’t - that we- I’m gonna miss you.”

“I’m gonna miss you too, York.” You admit, swallowing harshly so you don’t cry. He doesn’t deserve shit from you about shitty circumstances. He’s trying to do the right thing and you won’t blame him for that. “You better get out of here, go pack your shit.” You stand up and walk over to him to give him a brief, hard hug. “Take care of yourself.” You whisper. “I’m not gonna be there to watch your back.”

There’s so much he wants to say but he can’t so he simply kisses your forehead and steps back to look at you. “Be safe, kid.” He orders, needing to know that you won’t let yourself make mistakes. He doesn’t want your name to be added to the list of people he’s lost. He looks back at you one last time before he ducks out of your tent, leaving his heart behind and allowing the hole that’s left to be filled with anger and resentment at the world.

Present Day: July 4th, 2025

“So how are you liking our little community?” You want to roll your eyes at the puffed up pride that is practically oozing from the self appointed community leader. There’s not an HOA, you would never live in a fucking place where some arbitrary council could decide to put leans against your property for forgetting to put the trash can up after the garbage ran. You take a sip of the beer you had been handed when you arrived with a homemade banana pudding and smile politely. “It’s wonderful.” You admit, looking around at all the tables that have been set up. Kids are already screaming and running around, hopped up on too much sugar from attacking the dessert tables before eating. “We’ve almost unpacked and I’ll be glad to get the last box broken down. Work had brought you here, and you were honestly considering making it your last move. You were tired of uprooting your life and it would be good to finally call a place home for real.

Dave ushers the girls into the community park, thanking Gary for opening the gate as he hands him a six pack and some cupcakes that the girls had made yesterday since his wife is setting up the food table. “Alice! Molly! Be good!” He calls after them as they rush over to where all the kids are playing. He sighs, knowing he shouldn’t have to come to these events but the girls insisted and he can never say no to them. He grabs an ice cold beer, popping the top off, and lets his eyes wander around the expansive park until they land on you. He knows it’s you. Even if he hasn’t seen you in over twenty years. His eyes widen and he stares until you almost sense someone is looking at you and you turn your head to look right at him.

Dave fucking York. Your eyes widen in surprise to find what a small world it is. Never being shy and there being too much history between you to snub him, you murmur your apologies to the Johnsons down the street and make your way over to where he is standing, looking like he’s seen a ghost. “Small world, York.” You ignore the butterflies twisting in your stomach as you look at the man you’ve always loved. He’s changed, older and harder in a lot of ways that most vets are. You aren’t the same woman you were back in ‘03 either. “You live around here?”

He nods, “just moved in a few weeks ago.” He admits, “and the girls have made friends already with a bunch of the neighborhood kids so they insisted we come. Even though this holiday makes me itch.” He confesses, knowing that most people who served aren’t massive fans of the fireworks and explosives associated with America’s birthday. “You? What the hell are you doing here?” He asks, knowing you’ve got a lot to catch up on and his heart flutters in his chest.

You lift a brow, wondering if there’s a large age gap in his kids. “Moved here for a job.” You admit, shrugging slightly. “Moved in a week ago and decided that the BBQ was a good enough time to meet the neighbors and socialize just enough that they don’t notice I’m gone when the fireworks start.” He looks good, damn good, and you glance around, expecting to see the woman you had only seen a few times in pictures. “Do I get to meet Carol?” You ask politely.

He snorts, “she, uh, she isn’t here. We divorced. About a month ago.” He confesses and your eyes widen, “shit. I’m sorry.” You say and he scoffs, “don’t be. She - she cheated and we - we never should’ve been together.” He admits, “I love my girls, but Carol? She’s - well, she’s a liar.”

“Well, I mean, there must have been something there.” You sigh softly. “How big of an age gap is there between the girls?” You ask. “One is an adult, and how old is your youngest?”

Dave sighs, remembering why he ended up moving units. “Carol - she wasn’t pregnant. By the time I got her follow up letter, I’d already moved bases and we - we were talking. She wanted to get married and I felt like I had to do the right thing but we didn’t have kids until eight years ago. I’ve been busy with work.”

“Wow.” You grimace slightly, knowing that you might have changed your own trajectory if you had known that. “I’m surprised that you didn’t dump her when you found that out.” He shrugs, probably not wanting to bring up the past, only for it to walk up. “Hey mom, I’m going to head out.” Your son walks up to you and leans in to kiss your cheek. He’s never been the type to be ashamed of showing his mother affection. “Okay. Be safe.” You tell him seriously. He nods and then nods politely to Dave. “David Cross.” He offers, extending his hand to shake Dave’s.

Dave stares at the kid, probably about twenty - twenty one years old, and his eyes flick over to you. “I- it’s great to meet you.” He reaches out to shake his head and he sees the resemblance but he doesn’t say anything. “Dave York.” He tells the kid his name and he’s so curious but he won’t rock the boat when he sees you watching him cautiously.

“Nice to meet you.” David says politely before he turns back towards you. “I’m probably not going to be home tonight. Rogers came into town and we are going to catch up.” You smirk slightly and shake your head. “Don’t catch up toooo much.” You warn him. “When you go back, she’ll still outrank you.” You tease, making. David huff. “Mom, it’s not like that!” He hisses and you click your tongue. “Sure it isn’t, baby.” You kiss his cheek and pat it affectionately. “Go on, Midshipman. Don’t get arrested.”

“Navy?” Dave asks and David nods, “I’m in the academy.” He says and Dave hums, “I was a Marine.” David grins, “no way, man. Mom served too, like before I was born.” He says and Dave nods, turning to look at you, curiosity in his stare. “Go have fun.” You usher your son away and he says “bye!” as he strides off. “So, uh, you’re married?” Dave asks, shuffling his feet.

You wince. “Gold Star widow.” You explain quietly, watching as his eyes shadow over. “Cross was- he was attached to the supply unit that was back home when I got shipped back for being pregnant.” You answer his unasked question with that one statement. “He knew he wasn’t David’s father biologically. But he wanted to be his father.” You had loved Adam in a way that was much different than Dave. “He deployed the year after David was born.” You sigh and look down at your bare hand. You had never remarried but you had stopped wearing your wedding ring years ago. “He was killed by an IED with his supply convoy.”

“I’m so sorry.” Dave murmurs, seeing the sadness in your eyes, and he wants to squeeze your hand but he doesn’t. “You -” He frowns as he looks at you, “you said you were shipped back because you were pregnant?” He asks, not connecting the dots.

You nod slowly. “Yeah.” You breathe out. “I didn’t let you know because I didn’t want you to feel torn about your responsibilities.” You tell him softly. “You had decided to be with Carol and I respected that.”

Dave sighs, wishing you’d tried to contact him. “We - Carol wasn’t pregnant. I would’ve - shit. I wanted to be with you. Not her. I didn’t want to be with her. I wanted you.” He reveals, “fuck. He’s mine. I have a son.” He inhales deeply, trying to reconcile the news.

“He knows Adam wasn’t his father.” You admit, wondering if you had made a mistake all those years ago, not letting Dave know. “He has his name, his grandparents-“ you shrug slightly. “Adam told them about David, about me, but they didn’t care. They still love him.” You don’t know why you are telling him this. “But I never told him your name. I didn’t-“ you shrug again. “I couldn’t talk about you with him.”

“Did your husband know? Who I was?” He asks and you nod, “he did. He was a good man. I- I had to move on from you and Adam was there for me in my worst time.” You confess, “David was early and it - I nearly lost him.” You admit and Dave inhales deeply, regret deep in his bones. No one around you seems to realize the seriousness of the conversation you’re having.

“I understand if you’re mad at me.” You actually never thought you would ever see Dave York again, never have this conversation with him. All of this has brought back old feelings you had long since put to rest. Or so you had thought. “I was trying to do what I thought was best and I know you would have torn yourself apart if you thought you had to choose.” You didn’t know Carol had lied to Dave to get him back.

He huffs, "there was no choice. I was trying to do the right thing and instead I left the best thing that ever happened to me behind." He confesses, as the words "daddy! Daddy! Look!" hit his ears and he turns his head to find Molly and Alice running towards him with balloon animals. "Oh wow. Lemme guess...it's a...lion?" He teases and Alice huffs, "daddy, it's a dog!" He chuckles, "oh I see it now. Yours is a hippo?" He teases his other daughter who cries in protest, shaking her head, "silly daddy. It's a flower." He grins, shifting straighter and he looks at you, "girls." He gets their attention, "this is-" He says your name, "she used to work with daddy. This is Alice and Molly." He introduces his girls, gesturing to each one.

“Hi girls.” You smile at each of them and wave, seeing so much of their father in their little faces. “It’s nice to meet you.” They giggle over that and scamper off, eager to play with their friends. “They are beautiful.” You tell him. “No matter what, you can’t be upset at creating those girls.” Dave shakes his head. “I don’t regret them.” He promises. “But I regret leaving you.” You sigh softly. “It hurt, but I knew why you were doing it. You are a better man than you believe that you are, York.”

He looks around, shaking his head with a huff, "no. I've done some bad things, sweetheart. I'm not a good man but I would kill for my girls...and for you." He adds after a moment, "those girls are my world. The reason why I put up with Carol for so goddamn long." He shifts a little closer, "I thought about you. A lot. Uh, over the years."

“I think it’s safe to say that I thought about you.” He’s still so damn good looking. He’s broader, the leanness of youth has been replaced with the filled out figure of a man. It’s honestly distracting.

“Does he - did you tell him anything? David? You named him after me?” He asks, curious and so pissed off at himself for missing twenty years of his son’s life. All because Carol lied to him to get him to marry her.

“I told him that his father was a man that I loved very much and he didn’t know I was pregnant when we ended things.” You explain. “He does know that he’s named after you. He just didn’t react since when he was younger he would ask every man named David if he was his daddy.”

Dave nods, his heart clenching, and he clears his throat. “Can I - it’s completely your choice. He’s your child, but I’d like him to know the truth. That it’s me.” He says, wanting you to have a say since you’ve raised your son for twenty years.

“I never thought he would ever have a chance to meet you.” You admit quietly. “I never even looked you up anywhere. But…” you bite your lip. “I think he should know. He might have questions that I can’t answer.”

Dave is nervous, he can’t believe he’s saying that but it’s true. He’s nervous and he desperately wants to be able to explain himself to his son. To be able to tell him who he is. Even if his father is not a saint. He deserves to know where he came from. “I’d like to meet him. Tell him who I am.”

You don’t have any issue with that. You never wanted to bar Dave from seeing his son, but you had also never warned to cause issues for him. You had thought Carol was having his child, that she needed him. “He should be home tomorrow sometime.” You agree with a nod. “I don’t want to interrupt his plans.” You look towards where the kids are playing and spot his girls. “What about your kids?” You ask. “Do you want them to know right now? Or ever?”

Dave nods, “I do. It’s their brother. I want - I want them to know but not right now. I need to meet him, see if he’s angry at me for not being there his whole life. The girls will want to watch the fireworks and then I’ll take them home.” He looks at you cautiously, “can you- do you want to come back with me so we can talk some more?”

“Yeah.” You had anticipated just dipping out and going home after a little while, but now that’s changed. You don’t want to leave his side, wanting to learn what he’s been doing for the past twenty years. “I would like that. I think we have a lot to talk about.” You push aside the attraction that immediately roars back to life, he’s still handsome her all. He has moved on, you don’t expect him to want to be with you. Not after all this time.

He nods, “let me get the girls home. I live at 5678 Brookgreen.” He tells you, knowing that it will be best for him to get the girls in bed first before you sit down and talk. He thinks you’re just as gorgeous as back then and his stomach twists with attraction.

****

You mingle with the other neighbors, knowing that Dave needs to watch his girls around the fireworks. You don’t really enjoy them, but you don’t leave until they are over and walk back to your own house. Rolling your eyes at yourself but you jump in the shower really quickly and you hesitate, but then reach for the razor to quickly scrap the hair from your body. You don’t even contemplate what you are doing when you dress in your best lingerie and throw on a cute outfit.

Dave tucks the girls in, kissing their foreheads and bidding them goodnight. He promises to keep the monsters at bay, chuckling to himself when the door is closed as the real monsters are outside the house but he protects them from those too. He knows you'll be heading over soon, fireworks still bursting in the sky and he decides to have a shower, clean up before you arrive. His hair is still damp when the doorbell rings and he takes a deep breath before he opens the door.

“Hey.” You smile, stomach twisting when you realize he had also showered. Not sure if it means anything and it could be just your imagination, but he looks happy to see you. “Not interrupting am I?” You ask, looking around to see if the girls are still running around. You know the difficulties about getting hyper kids into bed by yourself when you’re doing it alone.

Dave shakes his head, "no. They are in bed. They are pretty good at going to bed when they are told to." He reveals and steps aside to let you into his house. It's a little messy with the girls' toys all over the place that he hasn't picked up yet but it's his home. He shuts the door behind you, getting a whiff of your body wash and his cock twitches in his pants.

“That’s good.” You chuckle as you step towards what you think is the living room. His house isn’t laid out too different from your own. “Sometimes David would want to compromise with me about bedtimes. Or he would just sneak out of bed and raid the fridge.” You smile fondly at those memories. Batman pajamas, guilty looks and sticky fingers at midnight.

He smirks, "luckily, girls are easier than boys." He gestures for you to sit down. "You want something to drink?" He asks and you nod, "whiskey if you have it." He nods and walks into the kitchen to grab two glasses of whiskey. He hands it to you before he sits down, settling in with his own glass as he looks at you. "So, uh, you haven't changed." He says, his dark eyes flickering over your features.

“If I don’t look like I have, I feel like I have.” You snort, taking a sip and looking him over. “You have though.” You lift a brow. “Filled out. Can’t believe you actually got better looking. Thought that was a hard thing to do, but you’ve got middle age by the balls, York.”

He chuckles, secretly pleased by the compliment. “I know what you mean. My knees are fucked. My hearing is definitely fucked.” He confesses, “too many years around guns.” He sighs, “but it feels like yesterday I was with you over there.”

“We were fucking babies.” You snort, shaking your head. “I can’t believe it’s been over 20 years since I’ve seen you.” You really can’t, it shocks you, considering how often you think about Dave. Not in a creepy, stalkerish kind of way, but he was your love. He is the father of your child. You think back on the times you spent with him, even before you slept together.

Dave smiles softly at the memories, remembering who he was before all the killing really poisoned his mind. “It feels like yesterday I was in your cot. Yet seeing you…makes me realize that I’m just as fucking in love with you now as I was then.” He admits bluntly.

You’re shocked, mouth dropping open and you shake your head. “I’m not the same woman I was twenty years ago.” You caution him, making him snort. “Hell, you’re a lot better than I’ve been, sweetheart.” He insists, leaning forward and cupping your cheeks in his hands. “Tell me that I’m wrong.” He challenges you. “Tell me you haven’t thought about me in the dark of the night, regardless of who you’re laying next to. Wondering what might have been.” You swallow harshly and lick your lips. “I can’t.” You admit quietly. “I’ve never loved anyone like I love you.”

Dave searches your eyes for a moment before he surges forward to press his lips to yours. Swallowing your moan as he greedily takes what he’s wanted to have for the past twenty years. Your hands grab the back of his neck, shifting to slide your fingers through his hair like he wanted you to all those years ago.

You can’t believe that he tastes the same. The raw, pure essence of Dave. You moan as his tongue touches yours, completely taking over in a way you haven’t felt in years. You press closer, not caring if it’s too fast, if you should slow down. You only had weeks before with Dave and here you are twenty years later. You aren’t going to waste this second chance.

He groans into your mouth, hand sliding down your back until he’s squeezing your hip. You take the cue and eagerly shift to straddle him. He’s already half hard, lost in the memories of how you feel and how fucking incredible it is to have you back in his arms. He kisses along your jaw after you need to catch your breath. “Shit. I missed you.” He pants, kissing down your neck.

“I thought I was going crazy when I saw you staring at me.” You admit with a breathless laugh. “God baby,” you feel his hands palm your ass and you grind down on him. “Feels like we’re back in that fucking tent, so fucking eager to touch each other.”

He chuckles, “always goddamn hard around you. Grateful for the uniform to keep it concealed.” He smirks and nudges his nose against your jaw, “tightest pussy I ever fucked. Thought about it a lot when jerking off. Remembered you under me in that cot.”

You grin to yourself and tilt your head back so he can kiss where he wants to. “Fucking loved your cock inside me.” You agree. You reach down and pull his shirt up, eager to find out what the time has changed.

“God, baby.” He shifts so you can pull his polo shirt over his head and he continues kissing your neck while his fingers play with the hem of your shirt. “Are you sure?” He asks, pulling back a moment later.

“Do you want to take things slow?” His eyes are searching yours but you know what you want. “I don’t. We’ve wasted twenty years, but if you need to take it slow, we can.”

He shakes his head, “I don’t want to but I want this to be what you want.” He murmurs and you cup his cheeks, “David Anthony York, it’s been twenty years and I’m still in love with you. Fuck me already.” You demand and he groans, surging forward to connect his lips with yours again and he squeezes your ass, shifting you onto the sofa so you are laying down. He wants to taste you, see if you taste just like he remembers.

Dave was never shy about anything to do with sex when you were in that sandbox together. He would go down on you, but he always knew you were clean. Maybe a little sweaty, but he couldn’t be a hypocrite about that shit. You watch as he reaches for your shorts and smirks as he starts to slide them down, chuckling when he discovers you aren’t wearing any panties. “Never wear them anymore.” You admit shamelessly.

Dave groans as he tosses your shorts over his shoulder, pushing your legs apart with his hands to expose your pussy to his hungry eyes. "Shit, baby. Looks just as goddamn delicious." He grunts as he surges forward to slide his tongue through your folds.

“Fuck Dave.” You gasp out his name before slapping your hand over your mouth. You don’t want the girls to hear you, but Dave shakes his head and pulls away. “Don’t, I want to hear you.” He groans before diving back in. Your hands pull away, clenching in a fist beside reaching for his hair again. “Baby, you were always so damn good at this,” you praise softly, keeping your voice low. “Never needed my vibrator when you were between my legs.”

He laps at your clit, fingers digging into your thighs as he laps at you. He loves how you taste, he has missed it. He sucks your clit into his mouth, fingers sliding along your thigh until he’s pushing two thick digits into your pussy.

“Fuck.” You gasp out the curse quietly, loving how he just completely takes over and gives you everything that you need. Your walls clamp down on his fingers and you can feel the hush of wetness that starts to coat them. Moaning softly when he curls them up and presses against a wonderful little spot inside you. “So good baby, you could always find that spot.” You praise. “Get your fingers so deep.”

He groans into your flesh, sucking harder and pumping his fingers a little faster. He wants you to fall apart for him. He needs to feel it. His free hand slides up to squeeze your breast, pinching your nipple, and you cry out. He’s hard, aching in his pants, and he desperately wants to be inside you.

He works you through it, pumping his fingers and pressing kisses to the skin around your clit. “So damn good.” He murmurs, licking his lips. “Daddy!” He hears from upstairs and he shifts, “I gotta - shit.” He mutters, reaching for his shirt and he wipes his face with the back of his hand. “Stay there.” He orders, “coming, baby girl!” He calls back to Molly and makes his way upstairs.

You reach for a blanket off the back of the sofa, pulling it over you to cover your body. Hopefully the girls aren’t coming downstairs but you wouldn’t want them to see a ransom naked woman in their living room if they did. You hear the low murmur of Dave’s voice as he talks to the upstairs and he doesn’t sound impatient or annoyed. You smile, thinking that he is a fantastic father and for a moment, you wonder how it would have been if you had told him. If he would have married you and had more kids. How many would you have had together? It’s a question that you think about sometimes.

Dave settles the girls down after they woke up from the fireworks, making his way back downstairs and he doesn’t remove his shirt. He finds you covered up and sighs, “sorry about that. The fireworks woke them up and they were scared.” He explains, “are you- you wanna get dressed or can I -?” He asks, wanting to be certain.

“No, it’s okay.” You promise, sitting up and letting the blanket pool at your waist. “I just didn’t want her to come downstairs and find some strange lady naked in her living room.” You grin. “That can happen later on.”

Dave chuckles, pulling his shirt over his head, and he shifts to sit back down on the sofa. “I can’t believe you’re here.” He murmurs, “it’s like no time has passed. Fuck, you still taste just as good.” He murmurs, ducking down to take your nipple into his mouth while he works on unbuttoning his pants.

“Oh fuck.” You love how sexual he is. How he just makes you forget about everything but the way he touches you. “I can’t believe you are here.” You reach down and pull his pants down one hip just as soon as he flicks the button open. “Always wanted to see you again.”

Dave doesn’t say anything to that, just hums around your nipple until he switches to the other one. You tug on his pants again and he pulls off your nipple with a pop, shifting off the sofa so he can push his pants down along with his briefs until his cock springs free.

“Still the best dick I’ve ever seen.” You moan, lunging up to wrap your hand around his length. “Don’t.” Dave bats your hand away and shakes his head. “I won’t last if you do that.” You pout, but you lay back and spread your legs. “Fuck me then, Dave.” You encourage, spreading your pussy lips with your fingers.

“Shit. Do we need - condom?” He asks, wanting to fuck you this second but he wants you to be comfortable. He groans, watching you play with yourself, squeezing his length in his fist.

“Not unless it’s been awhile since you got checked.” You bite your lip. “Never had sex since my last screening and my birth control is an IUD.” You smirk slightly. “Unless you don’t want to risk batting a thousand.”

He chuckles, “is it bad if I say I wouldn’t hate it?” He admits, shuffling closer, and he knows he has to introduce himself properly to his son, but for now, he enjoys this moment with you. “I’m clean. Got tested last month.” He promises, shuffling closer so he can slide the head of his cock through your folds.

You’re about to make a smart comment about age gaps but he starts to push inside you. Stealing your breath and every thought in your head just like he always did. “Daaaaave.” You whimper his name, lifting a leg onto his hip to let him sink deep inside you.

He groans your name, inhaling deeply at the feel of your tight cunt already squeezing him. “Fuck, baby. You feel so good.” He murmurs, caressing your thigh as he looks down at where he’s pushing into you.

“You-“ you gasp out, caressing his arm, the only place you really reach right now. “I want to feel you.” You beg. “Missed your weight on top of me.” You loved when he fucked you hard and pressed his entire weight down on you.

He nods, shifting to hover over you, and he pushes deeper. His weight on his forearm, he reaches for your other thigh to lift it onto his hip. His weight fully on you before he starts to slowly pull out. You whimper and he leans in to kiss your neck as he pushes back into you.

“Fuck.” You close your eyes and just let yourself feel this. He smells a little different, the cologne he used back then is different than the one he uses now. Now it has a more masculine scent, something spicy and dangerous. It smells delicious on him. “This is what I need.” You hum. “A Fourth of July fuck.”

“Better than fireworks.” He smirks, starting to rock into you. His pace is steady and sure. “Fuck. Forgot how good this pussy is. Fuck, baby.” He pants, biting down on your shoulder.

You giggle quietly and tighten your legs around his waist. Wanting this more than anything. “Dave.” Your nails dig into his back but you don’t drag them down, not wanting to scratch him up in case his girls had questions.

He groans when you react so beautifully. Fuck, he has missed how you sound, how you taste. He groans your name and presses his lips to yours, moving his hips a little faster. Fireworks burst in the sky outside but he doesn’t care, too lost in how you feel.

“I love you.” You whisper softly, eyes closed and a smile on your lips as he rocks into you. Dave groans your name in disbelief before he kisses you passionately. Your walls clench around him and you cry out when he punches deep.

He murmurs against your lips, “I love you too. I love you. Always have.” He declares, rocking into you in the same way that makes you cry out. He loves it. He loves how you flutter around him. “Fuck. So good.”

Both of you are lost in the sensations. Pushing each one higher, encouraging each other with kisses and praises. “So good, baby. You’re gonna make me cum. I’m gonna cum on your cock.”

He pants, rocking into you a little less precisely, needing to feel all of you. He groans into your mouth, his tongue caressing yours when he pushes it into your mouth. He needs you to cum for him.

Dave is just as insistent, just as needy as he fucks you. Pushing you and him both closer to the edge every time he thrusts his hips forward. Filling you and moaning into your mouth. You whine, so close your toes are starting to curl.

He can tell you’re close, his hips grinding into yours on each thrust, wanting to rub your clit. He wants to see you fall apart again. He needs to see it, to feel it. “Fuck, baby. You look so fucking pretty like this. Always did.”

“Baby, baby!” You love how he always knows what you need. His memory of your body apparently is not lost to time, or maybe he’s just that good of a lover. You don’t care, your cry is loud enough to ring in your ears while you start to shake and shatter under him. “Jesus.” He hisses when you clamp down on his cock, thrashing beneath him as he works you through it. Rocking into you with as precise thrusts as he can manage. “Fuck, baby. Still so goddamn tight.”

“So good, so good.” You want to go limp under him, but he still needs to cum. “Fuck, Dave.” You kiss along his jaw. “Need you to cum now, want to feel it again. Missed it, missed this.” You babble quietly. You had missed everything about him, but you have him back in your arms and you want to keep him there.

He grunts, needing to fill you up, and he grabs your thighs, lifting them onto his shoulders so he can sink even deeper into your fluttering pussy. Your answering cry has him chuckling and he looks down at you, almost folded in half. “Shit, you are squeezing me like a fucking vice.” He mutters, eyes drifting down to where his cock is buried inside you.

You moan as he starts to fuck you harder. The slap of his hips against your thighs is almost musical in its tempo. “Fuck!” You can’t do anything but hold on. Watching Dave’s face as he fucks you. Mapping the lines and the planes of his face while he pants and grunts, so close to cumming himself.

“That’s - shit. That’s it. You’re so goddamn beautiful baby, just as beautiful as I remember you. Fuck, best sex I ever had was in your cot.” He confesses as he rocks into you. His pace is sloppy, desperate thrusts as he works himself towards his orgasm.

“Yes.” You agree breathlessly. “Cum for me baby.” You beg. “Want to feel it, need to feel it.” You tell yourself that it’s fitting, poetic that it’s the 4th again. This time you are under Dave on his couch. “Cum!” You cry out right as fireworks explode outside and behind your eyes. Another orgasm crashing over you and overwhelming you.

He pushes deep, cock pulsing as he twitches. His hot cum painting your folds as your walls flutter around him. “Fuck. Jesusssss.” He hisses, ducking his head to press his lips to yours while he rides his orgasm.

You whimper softly against his lips, smiling as you float down from the incredible orgasm and your arms loosen around his back to start slowly stroking his skin. “I love you.” You whisper when he pulls back slightly. You can't believe that you've found him again. Now that he is back in your life, you won't let him go again. “Happy 4th of July.”

#pedro pascal #dave york #dave york x reader #dave york x you #dave york x f!reader #dave york smut #dave york fanfiction #dave york imagine #dave york fic

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sergeantbarnessdoll · 1 day ago

Note

Hi! I so much love your writing! Always checking your account.

I hope you are doing well.

I would like to request something, just if you want and have any time and if you are comfortable with it.

I was thinking about angst, heavy angst.

Bucky and the reader are married or in an established relationship.

They have a kid, a few months, maybe two or three and the reader has clearly postpartum depression, she snaps at Bucky, she cries, she can't take care of the baby properly, she doesn't remember to eat, clean, wash herself. She can't handle the baby.

Bucky works and the reader is on a leave, but it's Bucky who almost does all the work with the baby, he tries at least.

Until one night the both of you fight, something about the reader not getting help, the reader snaps bad, she throws a glass or does something dangerous for Bucky but she almost hits the baby.

And then I leave you to it!

Just if you are comfortable.

You pick if it ends in angst or not!

Thank you sooo much

🔮

I Don’t Recognize You Anymore » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Husband/Dad!Bucky Barnes x Wife/Mom!Reader

Summary: Postpartum depression hits you hard and on top of that, you and Bucky get into a fight.

Warnings: Angst, Fluff ending, language, postpartum depression, crying, kissing, pet names

A/N: Thank you for the request, nonnie🩵

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buck-star / divider made by me

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator.

You’ve heard all about postpartum depression. You know it’s affects women at different times. Sometimes it doesn’t last long. Sometimes it lasts longer than anyone expected. You got postpartum depression on and off shortly after you and Bucky brought yours and his daughter Jamie home from the hospital. Jamie 3 months old now. You assumed it wasn’t going to last long so you didn’t think much of it. This time it stayed longer than you expected. It hit you harder than you expected.

You’ve barely eaten, taken a shower, and cleaned the house since this wave of postpartum depression hit you. You barely have enough energy to take care of your own baby. You’re trying. You really are. Bucky is at work and you’re on maternity leave, taking care of Jamie. Recently, your postpartum depression has gotten worse. Bucky has noticed it too. You feel like you’re about to loose your mind, but you’re trying to not let that happen.

“Jamie, mommy doesn’t know what you want.” You say as you tried to soothe your crying daughter.

You fed and changed Jamie a little bit ago. Even with low energy, you’re trying your best to calm your baby girl down. Nothing is working. You’re out of options. You feel like you’re on the verge of a meltdown. Tears filled your eyes as you tried to think of a way to soothe Jamie.

Bucky just got home from work. He heard Jamie crying in the living room. He went to the living room immediately, seeing you lazily trying to soothe Jamie while your head was leaning against your hand.

“Can’t you hear her crying?” Bucky asks as he takes Jamie from your arms.

“Yes I do. I’m not deaf, Bucky.” You say.

“Then why are you doing anything?” He asks.

“I was until you took her from me.” You say.

“No you weren’t. You were just sitting there and not doing anything.” He says.

You rolled your eyes and got up to get something to drink while Bucky tried to get Jamie to calm down.

“What’s wrong, princess? Why are you crying?” Bucky coos.

You walked back in the living room with a glass of water. Bucky got Jamie to calm down in a couple minutes and then she fell asleep. He put her in the bassinet that you and Bucky keep in the living room during the day.

“What the hell, Y/N? I worked all day and I come home to you not doing a single thing to take care of our daughter.” Bucky says, clearly pissed off.

“I was taking care of our daughter. I fed her and changed her. I thought of everything I could to get her to calm down.” You say.

“No you didn’t. You just sat there being lazy while Jamie cried.” He says.

That’s when Bucky took a look around to see the messy state the living room is in at the moment. Not just the living room. The whole house is messy. Actually, it’s been a mess for almost a week. You were going to get to it while Bucky was at work, but you had your hands full with Jamie and your postpartum depression that you forgot about it. Even when Bucky is working, he tries to do what he can at home.

“Did you even try to clean the house while I was at work?” Bucky asks.

“I was going to, but I forgot.” You say.

“Of course you did.” He scoffs. “This is something else I have to deal with.” He says under his breath.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean, James?” You asked, clearly offended.

“You barely done anything all month. You don’t clean the house, let alone clean up yourself. You were barely taking care of Jamie when I walked in here.” He says.

“I have a lot going on, Bucky.” You say.

“You’ve been saying that so much lately that it doesn’t mean anything anymore.” He says.

“It’s true!” You say, raising your voice a bit.

Bucky rubs his hands over his face and then ran his fingers through his long hair.

“If you don’t get your act together, I’ll take Jamie and leave.” Bucky says.

“You wouldn’t do that.” You say.

“I will if I have to.” He says.

That set you off. Without thinking, you grabbed the glass cup you drank water out of and threw it towards Bucky. He dodged it and it hit the wall, dangerously close to Jamie. The glass shattered and went everywhere. Broken glass didn’t get in the bassinet. The sound of the glass hitting the wall woke up Jamie and she started crying. Bucky immediately picked up Jamie and checked her for any cuts. She didn’t have any.

“I don’t even recognize you anymore.” Bucky says.

Bucky took Jamie to her nursery while you stood in the middle of the living room, gasping to yourself when you realized what you just did.

“What the hell did I just do?” You asked yourself.

You ran to yours and Bucky’s bedroom and closed the door. You sat down on the bed with your legs crossed and put your head in your hands.

“I almost hurt my baby.” You say to yourself.

You felt your chest getting tight and tears began to stream down your face. You started to breathe heavily. The thought of you almost hurting your daughter broke you. Meanwhile, Bucky got Jamie to calm down for a second time since he got home from work. He gave her a bath and fed her.

“Mommy would never hurt intentionally you, princess. It was an accident. She’s just going through something right now.” Bucky says softly as he put a short sleeved onesie on Jamie after he put a diaper on her.

Bucky picked up Jamie and gave her a kiss on her chubby cheek before putting her in her crib.

“Daddy is going to see if mommy is ok.” He says softly.

Bucky walked out of the nursery, leaving the door cracked a little bit. He went down the hall to yours and his bedroom. He seen you crying and breathing heavily when he walked in the bedroom. He quickly made his way over to yours and sat down next to you on the bed, wrapping his arms around you.

“I almost- I almost hurt my baby.” You cried.

“Jamie is fine.” Bucky softly assures you.

“She is?” You asked.

“Yes.” He replies softly.

Bucky helped you calm down. You melted into his touch after you calmed down. He rubbed your back as you tried to relax.

“You should just take Jamie and leave me.” You say.

“Doll, I didn’t mean that. I was just mad.” Bucky says.

“Take her and leave. It would be better that way.” You say.

“Y/N, I’m not going to do that.” He says.

“You should.” You say.

“Stop saying that. I didn’t mean it.” He says.

“You said it yourself, James. You don’t even recognize me anymore. I don’t even recognize myself anymore either.” You say.

You started crying again. At this point, you’re not sure if it’s the postpartum depression making you cry or if it’s your emotions.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Bucky. I don’t know what to do.” You cried.

“It’ll be ok, babydoll. We’ll figure it out together. Right now, I’ll take care of you. Ok?” Bucky says softly.

“Ok.” You replied quietly.

“You take a nice hot shower and I’ll take care of Jamie.” He says.

“Ok.” You say.

You mustered up enough energy and strength to take a shower. Bucky checked on Jamie at the same time you got in the shower. She was awake and smiling up at her daddy.

“There’s my smiley girl.” Bucky coos at her.

Bucky picks her up out of her crib and gave her a kiss on her chubby cheek.

“Is my smiley girl hungry?” He asks.

Jamie made a babbling noise in response. Bucky took that as a yes. He went to the kitchen and made a bottle for her and then he went back to yours and his bedroom to feed her.

“How do you feel now?” Bucky asks as you walked out of the bathroom.

“A little bit better.” You say

“That’s good.” He smiles.

You got dressed and sat down on the far side of the bed, not trusting yourself near your daughter after what happened in the living room a little bit ago.

“Don’t be like that. Come closer.” Bucky says softly.

You moved closer to Bucky and Jamie. You got a good look at her to make sure the shattered glass didn’t cut her. Even though Bucky already checked her for cuts, you wanted to check her for yourself.

“When’s the last time you ate and slept?” Bucky asks, seeing dark circles under your eyes.

“I don’t know.” You mumbled.

“You need to eat and sleep, doll.” He says.

“I can’t. Jamie needs me.” You say.

“I got Jamie. You need to eat and sleep.” He says.

“Ok.” You mumbled.

Bucky took Jamie back to her nursery and put her back in her crib for the night. Then he made you something to eat. You ate in bed and then went to sleep. While you were sleeping, Bucky cleaned the house. You must’ve gotten a good night’s sleep or at least a nice long nap, because you woke up refreshed and with more energy than you had lately. You got out of bed and went to the living room. You saw Jamie in her bassinet and picked her up. She smiles up at you.

“You’re mommy’s smiley girl, aren’t you, sweetie?” You cooed.

Jamie made a babbling noise and grabbed onto your finger, making you smile.

“There’s my girls.” Bucky smiles as he walks in the living room.

Bucky walks over to you and gave you a soft kiss on your lips.

“How do you feel, doll?” Bucky asks softly.

“Better than I’ve felt in a while.” You say with a smile.

“Good. That’s good.” He smiles back.

You looked down at your baby girl with the look of adoration on your face. Not only is your energy coming back, your happiness is coming back as well.

“I promise I’ll try be better, Bucky. Please believe that.” You say, your voice cracking and your eyes tearing up.

“You know I believe you, babydoll.” Bucky almost whispers, caressing your cheek.

Bucky kisses you softly and sweetly.

“I love you and Jamie so much.” You say softly.

“We love you so much too, doll.” Bucky whispers back.

-Bucky’s Doll

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imnotjustreadingg · 2 days ago

Text

between lines

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Novelist!Fem!Reader (y/n) Genre: Established relationship, jealousy (not toxic), fluff, a little of low self esteem Word count: 3681 Summary: Bucky and Y/N are dating. She a novelist, and she's getting the news she's waiting since forever. Bucky is always an amazing supportive boyfriend, but even the most amazing and supportive boyfriend can have some issues. a/n: That's a fic where either the Avengers and the actors whom plays them exist in the same universe and can interect between each other.

Present time – Y/N and Bucky’s apartment

The clatter of the phone made Y/N jolting from her cozy writing nook.

It was an early morning call, but not unwelcome. Eric’s name, her publisher’s, appeared on the screen. Cheerful voice buzzed with excitement on the other end.

“Y/N, I’ve got fantastic news! A major production company just optioned the film rights for your latest novel. They want to adapt it for the big screen!”

“UNMASKED HEARTS? MY NOVEL?” you shouted, nearly rolling over the chair. She put the speaker on since her hand where trembling. Laid the phone on the desk, she began to twirl her finger, shower noise in the background.

“Yes, Unmasked Heart.” Eric replied, “You did it, Y/N.”

Her breath stopped for a second. Her superhero romance novel took inspiration by the real-life Avengers. Hearing Eric’s approval, Y/N thought back when he began part of the Stark Industries.

Flashback

“You did it, miss Y/N” Tony said on her first day in the Stark Industries.

Y/N started her career as a journalist. During a conference, her witty and precise questions and the way she replied to another journalist who abruptly interrupted her, made Tony Stark in person offering her a job in the communication department of the Stark Industries.

That’s how she ended up in the Tower. And that’s how she met him.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Y/N swore she had never seen a man more handsome than Bucky Barnes, in her whole life. Not on a screen, not even in the pages of the novels she used to write late at night, imagining what it would feel like to be an author, her big dream.

Slowly, she met the others too. Steve introduced himself with polite smiles and thoughtful questions. Sam followed not long after, bright and easy-going always teasing but never unkind. And then there was Nat. Sharp and unreadable at first until, over late-night coffee runs and quiet conversations in the training room hallway, they became something more. Good friends. Real ones. The kind who noticed when you weren’t okay, even when you said you were. It surprised her, how quickly Natasha let her in. But maybe the spy recognized something in her. The way they both watched more than they spoke, the way silence didn’t always mean nothing was being said.

Soon, the team wasn’t just a job. It was her circle, her people.

Months has passed, and her relationship with Nat got stronger. She hadn’t planned to say anything. Not really. She and Natasha were just sitting on the tower’s rooftop garden, nursing bottles of beer and watching the city lights flicker in the distance. It was the kind of time when secrets slip out before you can stop them.

“I think I have a crush on Bucky,” she said in one fell swoop.

Nat didn’t even blink. “You think?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

Y/N groaned. “Okay, fine. I do. I really do. And it’s awful.”

Nat tilted her head, amusement playing at the corners of her mouth. “Awful?

“Have you seen him? I can’t even form full sentences around him anymore.”

“And yet you’re handling the Stark’s pr department.”

“Believe me, it’s better handling them then talking to Bucky without stuttering.”

Nat sipped her tea. “Then ask him out imagining he’s one of the pr department.”

“What?” Y/N blinked.

“Ask him out. You’ve already faced Tony Stark’s ego and lived to tell the tale. What’s scarier than that?”

“Getting rejected by a man who looks like he walked out of one of my secrets novels?”

Nat smirked. “He is.” Y/N groaned again. Nat was the only one who knew about your writing.

But later that week, Nat’s words echoing in her head, so she did it. It was after a mission debrief, nothing big.

“Hey,” she started, breath catching. “Can I talk to you for a sec?” He nodded.

“Everything okay?”

No. Yes. Kind of.

“I was wondering if you’d want to… maybe grab a coffee sometime? Like…just us.”

There. It was out. Her heart thudded in her ears. Bucky froze. His blue eyes widened, just a little. His mouth parted like he was about to say something but didn’t.

The silence stretched. And stretched. And stretched.

She panicked.

“You know what, never mind. That was stupid. I just thought… It’s fine if… I mean, I’ll just…” “No! Wait,” he said quickly, stepping toward her, voice rough. “You just… surprised me.”

She blinked. “Surprised you?”

“I didn’t think you’d…” He exhaled, then smiled softly. “I’d love to go out with you, Y/N.” Her eyes widened. “Wait, really?” Bucky chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been working up the nerve to ask you for weeks. You just beat me to it.”

Their first date was supposed to be simple, just coffee at a quiet little place Bucky liked, tucked away from the city’s noise.

But something happened between the clink of mugs and the way his eyes never strayed from hers. He made her laugh, really laugh, and she made him smile in that rare, unguarded way that felt like a secret he only shared with her. By the end of the night, neither of them wanted it to end. So, it didn’t.

One night, curled up on the couch in her apartment, with his arm draped over her and the city lights glowing behind them, she admitted it.

“When I’m not writing reports or dodging Tony’s emails, I write… stories. Novels, actually.” It was the first person, after Nat, to know about the novels now. “Can I… give you something to read?” He looked down at her surprised and warm, sensing her shift in energy. “Of course.” Y/N stood up and crossed the room, placing the printed pages in his lap.

Her fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary. “It’s not finished,” she said quietly. “Not even edited. I don’t usually let anyone read my first drafts. But this one… I wrote it for me. And maybe for you, too.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked down to the title page. It was untitled. Raw. Real. He didn’t say anything. He just started to read. When he finally looked up, his eyes were glassy.

“You wrote about me,” he whispered. “That’s me.”

“I know,” she said, voice barely steady. “I wanted you to see yourself the way I do.”

Bucky stared at her like he’d never seen her before, and maybe he hadn’t, not completely. Not until now. He leaned in slowly, reverently, and kissed her like it was the only way to thank her. Like she’d just handed him something he never thought he’d get: a future.

Bucky convinced you to publish your works, and he was absolutely right.

Tony, of course, never let her live it down, but when she mentioned stepping away from Stark Industries to write full-time, Tony just snorted.

“You know,” she said casually, “most bosses don’t get emotionally offended when someone tries to resign.” Tony didn’t look up.

“Most bosses don’t have to deal with someone who makes the PR department function like a well-oiled machine and writes bestselling books about people suspiciously similar to their coworkers or based the broody love interest on Barnes.” he teased, sipping his espresso.

“So, you do read my stuff,” she said, smiling. “I skim,” he muttered.

They both knew it wasn’t the truth. Y/N and the other Avengers had found many times Tony reading on of your novel.

“Look,” he said, voice a touch lower, serious. “I get it. You’ve got talent, a lot of real talent. But we need you here. Not just for PR. For us.”

“Tony…” She frowned. “I’m not being sentimental,” he said quickly. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m allergic to feelings. But you…” he hesitated, then gestured vaguely toward the air. “You stabilize things. You get people. You’re the reason Barnes stopped lurking like a haunted house extra and started talking like a functional human being.” Y/N raised a brow.

“So, this is about Bucky.”

“It’s about all of us,” Tony said, then pointed at her. “But yeah. Especially him.” She softened.

“I’m not saying don’t write. Hell, I’ll even build you a private writing office with a cappuccino bar and soundproof walls. Just… don’t go, please.”

She pondered his offer, after accepting it already in her mind. “Let’s say I’ll stay, I want a day a week completely free for my novels” she said.

“Let’s make it a two completely free day deal.”

So, she stayed. With the Avengers. With her words. With him. And life, for once, felt like a story she didn’t have to write to believe in.

End of flashback Present time again

Eric still talking through the speaker. She swallowed, stunned. A younger version of herself, the one who wrote in secret, who never thought she was good enough, who hid her feelings for a certain super soldier, wouldn’t believe this moment.

“Oh wow. That’s incredible,” she breathed.

“Exactly! Now comes the fun part. You get to help find the perfect lead actor for your protagonist.”

She hung up then, clutching the phone, her mind already swirling with possibilities. Bucky, now out of the shower, with sweatpants no shirt and wet hair, watch her proudly.

“Looks like the novel’s going Hollywood.”

Y/N nodded, her eyes sparkling. “Yeah. They want to cast someone to play the hero... you.”

Bucky chuckled softly, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Well, I have zero problem being the protagonist. In fact, I’d say I’m perfectly fine for the role.” He said, striking a pose.

Y/N laughed. “Don’t get too cocky. It’s not like you’ll be doing the stunts.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Hey, I could handle that part too.”

A week later

Y/N found herself in a sleek studio with Eric, waiting to meet the actor considered for her story’s lead role. When he walked in, tall and confident with a familiar smirk, her breath hitched. Sebastian Stan, practically Bucky’s doppelganger in Hollywood, shook her hand warmly.

“Y/N, right? Big fan of your work.” She smiled, trying not to gawk. They were basically mirror images, except Sebastian had the polished aura of a movie star.

They spent hours talking about the nuances of her characters, the emotional core of the story and the complicated heroism of Bucky’s alter ego. Sebastian was smart, funny, and clearly passionate about bringing the story to life. Not to mention handsome.

That evening, she returned home buzzing. Bucky was cooking dinner, his jaw tightening the moment he heard Sebastian’s name.

“So, you met him,” he said quietly, voice low.

“Yeah. He’s great. Really gets the character.”

Bucky’s fingers clenched the spatula. “He’s… good looking?”

“Dreamy.” Y/N teased, arching a brow. “He looks just like you.”

He crossed his arms, pouting. “I don’t see it. Sebastian’s got that Hollywood charm. It sounds fake to me.”

“Please,” Y/N smirked, stepping close sensing his jealousy. “You’re the original. The guy the stories are based on. Sebastian Stan is just the actor.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened with mock jealousy. “So, you think I’m handsome enough?”

She giggled, brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “I think you’re the most handsome man in the universe. Besides, you don’t need to act like you’re in a movie. You are the movie.”

His lips twitched, a rare, soft smile spreading. “Then I guess I better start practicing my lines.” Y/N wrapped her arms around him. “Lines or no lines, you’re my hero. And no actor, no matter how good looking, can ever replace you.”

First day of set

Y/N and the Avengers (the real ones) were invited to visit the set before anyone else, and as they stepped onto the bustling lot, they spotted familiars faces mingling; the actors brought in to portray the Avengers on screen.

Steve Rogers, ever the gentleman, was shaking hands with Chris Evans, the man cast to play Captain America. “Good to meet you, Chris,” Steve said with a warm smile. “I guess you’ve got some big shoes to fill.” Chris chuckled, “Only trying to live up to the legend.”

Nearby, Tony Stark gave Robert Downey Jr. a wink. “I hope you’ve got the right amount of sarcasm lined up.” Robert smirked. “Don’t worry, I’ve studied the role thoroughly.”

Sam Wilson greeted Anthony Mackie with a friendly clap on the shoulder. “Falcon, huh? I’ll hold you to those aerial stunts.” Anthony grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ve got wings.”

Scarlett Johansson and Natasha Romanoff exchanged knowing glances and a small smile. “So,” Natasha said, “you ready to be me?” Scarlett laughed softly. “I’ll try not to mess it up.”

Y/N watched the interactions with amusement, jotting notes in her notebook. The blend of real and reel worlds was surreal, but knowing the real heroes was just as inspiring.

Bucky politely shook his hand with Sebastian.

The movie set buzzed with activity, lights and cameras and crew members hustling about. Y/N stood just off to the side, notebook in hand, watching Sebastian rehearse a scene. She couldn’t help but study him closely, analysing every expression, every movement, the way he embodied the character she’d created.

Bucky, leaning casually against a nearby wall, caught the way her eyes lingered a little longer than usual on Sebastian. A slow, teasing smile crept across his lips.

“You’re staring,” he said softly, stepping beside her.

She laughed, nudging his arm. “No way. I’m just making sure he gets it right.”

“You know,” he said, voice low, “if you spent as much time looking at me as you do Sebastian Stan, you might finish your next book faster.” Bucky’s smile deepened. “You’re watching him a little too much. You planning to write a sequel starring him?”

Y/N grinned, teasing back without missing a beat. “Honey, I’ll write an entire saga about that man.”

But when she saw Bucky’s smile falter, the teasing gave way to gentle reassurance. She reached out, taking his hand in hers.

“Hey,” she said softly, “I’m joking.” After Y/N reassured him, Bucky looked up at her with a softer expression, the playful edge gone for a moment.

“Would you write a saga about me?” he asked quietly, his voice low but earnest.

Y/N smiled, brushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “Maybe I’m already doing it.”

He reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. She leaned into him, voice low and teasing. “You’re the only one I want.”

The sun dipped low over the set lot as Y/N and Sebastian chatted beside a cluster of equipment. Sebastian animatedly explained a scene, his hands moving expressively, while Y/N listened intently, occasionally nodding and smiling.

Bucky stood a few feet away, arms crossed, eyes narrowing just a bit talking with Steve who was leaning casually against a railing nearby.

“Looks like she’s really taken with him,” Bucky muttered.

Steve followed Bucky’s gaze and smiled knowingly. “They’re just discussing the character. She’s making sure he gets it right.”

Bucky scoffed lightly. “Right. He’s got the charm, but can he pull off the grit? I’m the one who’s actually lived it.”

Steve chuckled. “No one’s replacing that.”

Once Y/N and Sebastian stopped chatting, they reached for Bucky and Steve. As Bucky and Y/N exchanged their quiet, tender moment, Sebastian said, “You guys are so cute. Remind me of Annabelle and I.”

Bucky glanced at Y/N, eyebrows raised in silent question.

Once he left, Y/N grinned nudging him lightly. “Oh yeah forgot to mention. He wasn’t flirting. Annabelle is the stunning woman he’s actually dating.”

Bucky smirked, folding his arms. “Good. Because if he was flirting, I might have to challenge him.” Y/N laughed softly. “See?” she whispered, sliding an arm around his waist. “No competition.”

At night, Bucky couldn’t quite shake the niggling feeling of envy. He sat on the couch, arms crossed watching Y/N scroll through pictures on her phone from the set.

“Look at this one,” she said, holding up a snap of Sebastian, mid-laugh, hair perfectly tousled. Bucky grunted. “Yeah, he’s got that whole ‘Hollywood model’ thing down.”

Y/N’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “Sure, but can he do this?” Then struck a silly heroic pose. Bucky laughed, but his eyes narrowed playfully. “I’m pretty sure I look better doing that.”

“Oh really?” She dropped her phone and leaned in close, voice dropping to a teasing whisper.

He flexed his arm, proudly showing the faint metal glint under his skin. “I have battle scars on my body, doll. They’re sexy.”

God, Bucky didn’t know how true it was

Y/N grinned, poking the metal fingers gently. “Definitely makes you unique.”

Bucky smirked, rising to stand behind her and wrapping an arm around her waist. “See? The real deal.” She tilted her head, looking up at him with a sly smile. “The real deal comes with bonus perks. Like a personal bodyguard, a war hero, and a handsome guy who doesn’t need any acting lessons.”

Bucky’s lips curled. “Careful, or I’ll start charging for those perks.”

Y/N laughed softly. “Don’t get too confident, I might start writing a sequel called How to Leave the Jealous Boyfriend.” He tightened his grip, a playful glint in his eyes. “Only if you cast me as the lead. I’m sure I could make you change your mind.”

Again, Bucky didn’t know how that was true too.

“Of course,” she whispered, kissing the side of his neck. “Because no one else could ever play you better.”

Six months later

One evening after shooting one of Sebastian’s last scenes, Y/N padded through the apartment barefoot, a steaming mug of tea in one hand and her phone in her other hand, speaker on. Bucky still outside, grabbing dinner.

Natasha’s voice crackled through, calm and sharp as ever.

“So,” Nat said, drawing the word out, “how’s Sebastian?”

“He’s really talented, and he brings a lot to the role. But honestly, there’s no one like Bucky.”

You were quite sure Natasha’s smirking. “I’ve noticed he’s been a bit protective lately. Jealous, maybe?”

Y/N laughed softly. “Yeah, he’s not shy about showing it. But it’s sweet in its own way.”

Nat was silent for a second. “You’re gone for him.”

“I was gone the second he looked at me,” Y/N said, eyes drifting to the window, voice softer now. “He listens. Really listens. He remembers everything, even the stupid little things I say when I’m half-asleep. And when he looks at me… I feel like the safest place in the world is his arms.”

From the hallway behind her, a quiet cough broke the moment. Y/N froze, shutting his eyes.

She turned slowly to see Bucky standing just inside the doorway, dinner in hand. He looked stunned… and just a little smug.

“How long have you been standing there?” she asked. “Long enough” he said, eyes twinkling.

“Well, I’m gonna let you two lovebirds work through that.” Nat’s voice cut through the awkward silence, amused as ever. “Meeting tomorrow Barnes, don’t forget”

“Don’t worry, Romanoff.” Y/N closed the call.

Y/N buried her face in a throw pillow. “I’m never recovering from this.”

He sat down beside her, tugging her gently into his lap. “Are you kidding?” he murmured against her ear. “You just called me your safe place. That’s not something I ever thought I’d be to anyone.”

“You are,” she whispered. “You really are.”

Last day of filming

Being the author, comes with privileges and Y/N sitting cross-legged on the couch and a bowl of popcorn resting on her lap prepare to watch the final version of the movie. Bucky settled beside her, arms crossed, already bracing for a long night. Eavesdropping her phone call with Nat relieved him, so he playfully decided to tease her criticizing Sebastian’s act. Just a little bit.

The opening scene played, Sebastian’s face filling the screen, sharp and polished.

Bucky snorted. “Look at that hair. Too perfect. No way my hair ever looked that good after a mission.” Y/N smiled, jotting down notes. “True, but his expressions are really nuanced. He gets the internal conflict.”

Sebastian launched into an intense fight scene, executing choreographed moves with sleek precision. “Too smooth,” Bucky muttered. “I don’t fight like I’m in a dance recital.”

Y/N laughed. “I think that’s more cinematic.”

“Maybe, but it’s not real,” Bucky insisted. “Where’s the grit? The struggle? I’m covered in sweat and blood, not glowing.”

As the movie progressed, Bucky’s commentary grew louder.

“That line? Totally off. I never talk like that.”

“And this scene? They made me smile. I don’t smile. I scowl.” Y/N playfully elbowed him. “You’re impossible.” Bucky smirked. “Hey, I’m just helping you make sure this adaptation stays true to the legend.” Y/N pressed a kiss to his cheek. Bucky’s smile softened as they settled in to finish the movie.

It was now late night, and the apartment was dark. Y/N sat curled up on the couch and Bucky perched nearby.

“So? What do you think?” she asked.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. A sad idea through his mind. “I don’t know, doll… if you’re so talented writing stories maybe you’ll leave me for an actor who impersonated them.”

Y/N reached over, taking his hand gently. “Hey, look at me.”

Bucky met her eyes. “I’m never going to leave you for Sebastian Stan,” she said firmly, voice soft but steady. “Not now, not ever.”

He blinked, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. Bucky let out a shaky laugh. “I’m glad you think so.”

Y/N grinned mischievously sensing him believing her, squeezing his hand. “Besides, if I ever did want to leave you for a Marvel guy…” She paused for dramatic effect. “Maybe Chris Evans. You know he will always be Captain America.”

Bucky chuckled, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Yeah, well, don’t forget who’s the Winter Soldier.”

Y/N laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Yeah, yeah, Captain Strong-and-Handsome.”

Bucky’s smile deepened, a slow, teasing glint in his eyes. “Handsome? Oh, you really love me, doll.”

She grinned, her fingers curling around his metal arm. “More than you know.” Y/N said, leaning her head against his shoulder. “And you’re mine. End of story.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x female reader #bucky x oc #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #sebastian stan

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kk-iki · 2 days ago

Text

i want to be more than this.

synopsis: price is usually gentle with you. sweeter. you don’t realize she can be cruel until she tries to tease you in front of her team. . .except it doesn't come off as teasing.

wc: 3.1k

tags: fem!price x fem!reader, sfw, implied age gap (reader is in her early twenties, price is in her mid-forties), mentions of cheating (not from price), angst, hurt/comfort, the ‘saying something and immediately regretting it but the damage is done’ trope (r!receiving, sorry), reader reacts the same way i would except i’m not sure if it’s a symptom of bpd or just me being a crybaby, reassurance, crying, the phenomenon of loving a woman you know has the capacity to break your heart.

notes: i promised @femmemichaelis i’d write this at some point and only got to it now because i’m on the road. sorry, rubes, you know i love you. i think i’m projecting a little with this one, but it’s probably fine.

reblogs are appreciated, of course, and you can direct any ensuing vitriol directly to my inbox. love you. x

you don’t know what you’re doing here.

the answer should be obvious. you’re here to spend time with price without taking her away from some wind-down time with her mates. maybe you’re here to be the eye candy on her lap at the pub too, but neither of you are going to say that outright—even if the way her hand remains splayed on the curve of your hip speaks volumes enough.

but as you nurse your finger-bowl of something light and mildly citrusy, you realize that you don’t know why the hell you came in the first place. she’s not even paying you any attention.

you feel a little bit like a brat for being so upset about it. her fingers are warm, searing through the fabric of the dress she’d gently slid you into two hours prior—a blue so pale it was almost white, if not for the way it seemed to flush under certain lighting. you’re seated on her knee like it’s a place of honor at this table, leaning into her without much thought and occasionally coaxing a pleased hum out of her as you idly kiss the hollow of her jaw. the low curl of satisfaction you feel at the position you’ve found yourself in scorches at you from within.

that should be enough.

but you’re hungry.

for what, you don’t know. maybe you’d been hoping it would just be the two of you for a moment as conversation lulled; that they would look away if your lips lingered on her skin a little longer than strictly appropriate, and you could whisper things to her—and for a brief, precious moment, she’d reply back, and it would be that way for however many seconds you could be afforded.

her team are good people, you know. they’re charming when it matters, gorgeously stoic other times—but really, you think over the second gin rickey you’ve sipped at tonight, do they not have all the time they spend together at work to ask each other these questions? they’re off duty together enough, you ponder, slightly irritable despite the faint perfume of elderflower syrup in your cocktail.

and, you think most pathetically, you’re fairly sure each of them has spared only one question about or to you before moving right along.

it’s so sobering that you’re almost instantly reminded of when you were just a little younger, right before you’d been as sure of yourself as you liked to convince yourself that your early twenties had made you. you had been on the cusp of blooming out of teenage years, and your first girlfriend had just cheated on you.

young and bitter and scorned, you’d bared your pale imitation of a snarl and had told her that no matter who else she fucked while telling you she loved you over the phone, none of them would measure up to you because none of them would love her like you had.

she had laughed and said, “don’t kid yourself. that doesn’t mean shit if your love can’t save you from getting cheated on.”

in hindsight, you knew she was the evil one. but at the time, what she’d said had felt like your heart had been pressed into a lemon juicer until it had nothing left to squeeze out.

you’d never felt so…small.

you remember telling price about this, once. you’d been tucked in the booth of a restaurant awash in low golden lighting, nibbling on something peppery and tender. she’d been so defensive on your behalf that it had startled you into laughter.

“it was years ago,” you’d reassured her. “i know it’s not true now. i just…at the time, i was desperately hoping someone would give me something like that.”

“like what?”

“that anger. not because of me, but for me.”

“i would give you anything.”

you’d laughed then, quiet so she didn’t think it was supposed to be mockery. it wasn’t. she seemed to have a particular affinity at the time for pulling those sounds out of you like it was second nature.

“you mustn’t say such things. what are you going to do if one day, i ask you for the moon?”

“get it for you, of course.”

you’re not sure how the rest of that night went. you just know that you’d felt like you were full of clouds up until the next week. your coworkers had been quick to notice, but at the time you’d hardly cared. you’d always been somewhat of a romantic, and she had plunged her fingers into your heart and left the indents of her prints deep within you to be filled by moonlight and rose water. you hadn’t been sure that you’d ever felt happier.

where, you ask now, is that feeling?

you search for it, in the warmth of her body and the low rasp of her voice so close to you. but none of it is particularly for you right now, and you feel faintly like a piece of the backdrop—like you’re just as beautiful and unremarkable as the whorl of foam bubbles in her pint, or the blushing neon of the signs by the billiards table. it sends a pang through you; you can’t recall when spending your evening with price had ever made you feel this way.

you try one more time to get her to pay you more than a sidelong glance, your fingers toying at the hem of her jumper. when it doesn’t get you more than a slight pause in her sentences, you settle closer to her and bring your hand beneath her chin, tilting her face closer to kiss her cheek.

“baby?” you say quietly. “i–”

price finally looks over at you, and there’s a flash of something in her eyes that sends a shrapnel of nausea rolling through you. like she’s holding back from scolding you in front of all her friends.

“not now, sweetheart,” she says, voice low as she squeezes your hip. it doesn’t send those prickles of anticipation through you this time, for some reason. “‘m talking with simon.”

like you have been all night? “but i–”

“i said not now, okay?” price repeats, firmer this time, and you promptly shut up because you’re smart enough to not try a third time when the air between you two feels as tenuous as a thread pulled taut. with a slight nod, you resign yourself to your drink and try to focus on the taste of gin warming your mouth.

she looks at you for a moment before leaning in to peck your cheekbone, an affectionately exasperated smile on her face as she shifts you on her knee. “good. swear, it’s exhausting, putting up with you sometimes.”

the gin in your mouth goes sour. whatever simon says next fuzzes out into static. her hand on your hip feels like it’s burning right through you. the room’s doubled in size. you feel so small you think you might blink out of existence entirely. there’s something tight and horrible swelling in the back of your throat. you don’t feel hungry anymore—just hollow, with no appetite to fill it.

for a moment, she glances at you like she’d expected a response. you can’t muster one, too stunned by the unexpected sting of her words to really think of anything to say back. something like regret passes over her face, and for a moment you think she might chase this sweltering sickness away from you with her kisses and gentle words and reassurance, like she always does.

instead, she turns back to her team and keeps talking.

you let it loose, crying so suddenly and so loudly it shatters every glass and window in this godforsaken building. your nails tear hard and jagged through the fabric of your pretty dress. you tug at your hair so hard that fistfuls come ripping out, dead animals layered in your palms. you scream that you hate her—because for a blinding second, you do—and immediately get hit with guilt for even thinking that. you smash your glass against the table, collect your coat, and storm out without looking back.

you do none of those things.

instead, you take a sip of your gin rickey and tell yourself you’re going to forget tonight.

you won’t.

the drive back home is suffocating in its silence.

price tries to coax words out of you, now that it really is just the two of you. asks you what you thought of the others, told you they loved having you there, that you looked beautiful tonight. you respond with quiet hums and the occasional two-word answer, your body tucked against the side of the seat like it’s holding you.

you don’t know if she notices how uncharacteristically quiet you’re being—and honestly, you don’t care. you just want to go home, change into something soft, and sleep until you forget everything that happened after you’d gotten home from work that evening.

you enter the house without a word, your keys jangling cheerfully as you walk inside. you still hold the door open for her like you always do, but you don’t look at her as you pass and make your way up the stairs.

you’re halfway through pulling your dress off, not bothering to turn on the light of the walk-in closet, when price wanders in. “sweetheart?”

you don’t reply. she finds you anyway, approaching you from behind before sliding warm arms around your waist.

“everything alright, dove?” she asks, pressing her lips to your shoulder. you try to ignore how empty the gesture feels now.

“fine,” you say as you unclasp your bra and toss it into the hamper, selecting a sleep shirt without another word.

you feel her frown against your skin. “you sure? you’re bein’…quiet.”

“why wouldn’t i be sure?”

price watches you quietly as you pull on the shirt that isn’t hers—a purposeful move on your end, and both of you know it. she remembers how much you like wearing her clothes to bed.

“just…you’ve been off, since we left th’ pub. did somethin’ hap–”

“everything’s fine,” you emphasize. you’re not angry that she’s trying, you’re angry that she can’t even realize what she did.

“…if you say so,” she says slowly. “but you know ‘m here to listen.”

something in you fractures. “do i?”

she draws back fully, her frown entirely puzzled. “what?”

in a bout of sudden courage, you snip back, “thought you wouldn’t want to put up with me tonight. you know, since it’s so tiring for you.”

you don’t see what her face does next, but you can practically hear it—that lingering pause of realization, then of the crushing regret you’d secretly been wishing would hit her. she lets out a noise caught between a groan and a sigh, and even though it’s not really at you, your heart pinches painfully as if it was.

“oh, sweetheart,” she mumbles, taking a step closer to you. “you know i didn’t mean what i said back there, i wouldn’t ever–”

“but i didn’t,” you reply shortly, sidestepping her. you’re dressed now, and the bed is calling your name. “you made me feel like a fucking idiot in front of all your friends, price. are you proud of yourself?”

“i didn’t mean to. of course i didn’t. it was just a joke,” she says, hand raised to try and reach for you. you wave her off and walk away.

“well, it wasn’t funny.”

“i know, i know that now,” she tries, walking after you. you hate how easy it is for her to catch up to you when it’s so hard for you to catch up to her. “i swear, sweetheart, i didn’t mean to make you feel like that. i was just teasing, i promise.”

“okay,” you reply, pulling yourself into bed without bothering to wipe off your makeup.

“...‘okay’? dove, it’s not okay, even i know that,” price says, hovering over you uncertainly. her shadow cuts through the moonlight that you keep your curtains open for, swelling in the space she takes up. “c’mon, i’ll help you take your makeup off, just…let me make it up to you proper, sweetheart. please.”

“no, thank you,” you reply, ignoring the way your body heaves with sobs that you lock in a box because you refuse to cry in front of her. your lungs feel like they’ve been punched in, and you have to bite the sides of your tongue between your molars to keep yourself from crumbling to pieces right here on the neat—if not a little old fashioned—champagne-beige carpet.

“[name]—”

“no, thank you.” you’re grateful that she at least has the sense to not try and ask a third time. instead, she sighs deeply through her nose and hauls herself up fully, stalking away and leaving you alone in the bedroom. she doesn’t look at you once, and you fight not to stare at her retreating back.

the room feels too big, and so you hastily stumble to the bathroom to get yourself ready for bed. the tile is unforgivingly cold against your bare feet, and you find yourself hurrying through the motions, eager to just curl up in bed and sleep off this nightmare as quickly as you can.

you linger by the doorway when you’re done, hearing some shuffling downstairs. peering over the banister, you spot her pulling out blankets from the storage room in the hall. if she sees you, she doesn’t say anything as she disappears into the living room.

you try to lean into the sharp bite of satisfaction you feel. good. you hadn’t wanted to sleep next to her tonight anyway.

but as you curl up in bed, under sheets too heavy for you in a bed that seems determined to swallow you whole with its wide frame, you know it’s a lie.

you stir from a fitful rest a few hours later. it’s still dark outside, but you know from the lack of heaviness in your limbs that you won’t be able to fall back asleep. sliding carefully out of bed, you move to swing your legs over the side and make your way downstairs–

except your leg hits something on the side of the bed. a soft snort follows, then silence. you realize with a start that you’re not the only one breathing in the room.

peering down as best as you can in the limited light, your gaze lands on price’s sleeping face. when she’d come back, you have no idea, but she hadn’t tried to come into bed at all. the covers had been tucked in tightly, neatly enough to where you’re sure it couldn’t have been your doing. you don’t know how long she’s been there, curled on the floor with her head leaning against the side of the bed where you had laid only moments before.

you swallow down the traitorous lump of…something in your throat and try to nudge past her. but, of course, price is as light a sleeper as they come, and so she blinks awake the moment you try to inch yourself over the other side of the bed.

“[name],” she calls, hoarse from sleep. you hate yourself a little for going still, for waiting for her to say something that you’re determined to convince yourself won’t change a thing.

when you don’t respond but don’t move to leave either, she sits up fully to face you and continues, “c’mere. please.”

you turn, eyes meeting hers. you do your best not to show whatever tumultuous stirring is inside of you on your face. “why?”

“b’cause i’m not gonna apologize to your back. you need t’ know that i mean it.”

“what difference do you think it’ll make?”

price sighs, but it’s not the mad-at-you kind of sigh. you watch as she drops her face into her hands, rubbing her skin for a moment before she finally lifts her eyes to meet yours and says, “i don’t. but i don’t want you t’ think i’m not sorry for how i treated you.”

“it doesn’t make what you did okay, and you need to know that,” you reply, biting down harshly on the inside of your cheek to stop the expanding of your throat from becoming a painful stretch. “what you said– it fucking hurt, price.”

“i know, baby, i know, and i will never say something like that again,” she says, her voice coming out slightly breathless. you wonder how long she’d been thinking over this before she’d curled up on the floor beside you like a dog. “i wasn’t thinking last night, but that still isn’t an excuse. i never, ever want to be the one to hurt you, sweetheart. never.”

you nod, lips pursed as if that’ll hold back the sobs lodged in your throat. “i know.”

“y’ don’t have to forgive me right away,” price says after a moment, her eyes darting down to the 800-thread count sheets she’d insisted on for you. “but i just– i wanna make it right. so if you can tell me what i can do t–”

“oh, for heaven’s sake,” you mumble as you shuffle closer, sliding over the sheets to sit down next to where she’s kneeling. “just come up here. it’s too early to be crying over this.”

price stops, stunned for a moment before she gets up quickly enough to wobble from the lingering drowsiness. she takes a half-step towards you, eyes seeking for something in yours that you aren’t sure is showing.

“are you…are you sure?” she asks, and you blink slowly as you realize that you’ve made the indomitable, hard-as-steel captain price hesitate.

“if i wasn’t sure, i wouldn’t have said it,” you reply, sliding back under the sheets and leaving the space open for her to curl into you. “come on. i’m still tired, and i could barely sleep without you taking up half the bed.”

she exhales a laugh, quiet and unsure, before she’s tucking herself in with you. for a moment, it seems like she’ll try to keep her distance from you, but you come close enough to press your leg against hers—and then she’s scooping you into her arms and cradling you against her collar as if she’d never left.

“jesus, i missed this,” she mutters into your hair. you say nothing, and so she fills the silence for you. “again, y’ don’t have to forgive me straight away, but…thank you. for letting me back in.”

again, you don’t reply; but this time, you’re not angry—just content to drift off in her arms. you know you’ll forgive her sooner or later. you know you can never really stay angry at her when she’s as apologetic as she is with you. you know you’ll need some time before you get there fully.

but for now, you stay tucked against her, arms folded and legs tangled and breathing even—as if it’s second nature.

and for now, it’s enough.

copr. 2025, kk-iki.

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formulafanfics13 · 1 day ago

Note

Love your writing! how about one where Lance is dating Fernandos only daughter whos the same age as Lance. having been a teen dad and single parent, Nando is naturally quite protective and wants to make sure his daughter is safe and doesnt get hurt. <3

eyes on you - LS18

Masterlist

summary: lance is in love with fernando alonso’s daughter — a brilliant, beautiful, emotionally unbothered girl who has him wrapped around her finger. fernando’s been a single dad since he was a teenager and now that she’s grown, he’s not ready to watch her fall in love with someone from the grid. especially not someone on his team.

warnings: age gap (fernando was a teen dad), protective dad energy, fernando lowkey threatening lance, established relationship, implied smut, emotional softness, lance being a patient king, fernando being reluctantly impressed, fluff with heat underneath

“Lance. Sit.” The tone is flat. Neutral. Not angry. Not friendly either. More… surgical. Lance does as he’s told.

The door to Fernando’s private driver room shuts behind them with a hiss. The kind of quiet that makes your stomach twist. The walls are thin in Aston’s hospitality unit, but Fernando doesn’t seem to care.

He folds his arms. Stares. Lance resists the urge to squirm. He’s been summoned. And he knows exactly why.

“You want to tell me how long this has been going on?” Fernando finally says.

Lance opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks of her. Her wild hair. Her silver hoops. Her cherry red nails. The way she sucks on lollypops during debriefs like she’s not the most distracting thing on Earth. The way she laughs, that low and unimpressed sound, every time he messes up a flirty comment.

The way she kissed him for the first time on the pit wall in Abu Dhabi after midnight. The way she said don’t tell my father while unzipping his hoodie in the passenger seat of his hire car.

“Six months,” Lance says softly.

Fernando doesn’t blink. "You think that’s long enough to make you serious?”

Lance swallows. “It’s long enough to make me careful.”

Fernando was twenty when she was born. Twenty-one when he first changed a diaper in the back of a motorhome. Twenty-three when he stood on a podium and cried because she’d been watching from the paddock.

He’s built entire decades around protecting her. Now she’s in love with Lance Stroll.

The one man he can’t exactly threaten with physical harm, because he’s his teammate. Because Lawrence would notice. Because it’s not just personal, it’s political.

But still. He watches. He waits.

“Have you touched her?” he asks calmly.

Lance tenses.

“I’m not asking because I’m angry,” Fernando continues. “I’m asking because if you have, I expect you to understand what that means.”

“I haven’t disrespected her,” Lance says quickly.

“But you have touched her.”

A beat. A flush. “Yes.”

Fernando nods once. “Then you understand that if she gets hurt, I will hurt you.”

Later, in the hallway outside hospitality, she finds him. Still flushed. Still shaken. She grins. “He cornered you, huh?”

Lance raises a brow. “You could’ve warned me.”

“I did,” she smirks. “I said he was dramatic.”

“That wasn’t dramatic. That was premeditated.”

She giggles. “You’re lucky he likes you. He’s just… old school.”

“He said he’d kill me if I hurt you.”

Her smile softens. “Then don’t.”

That night, in the hotel room, she climbs into Lance’s lap wearing nothing but one of his Aston Martin shirts and a pair of black cotton panties. He doesn’t touch her until she says he can. When he finally does, it’s soft. Worshipful. Earned.

Afterwards, when she’s curled on his chest and half-asleep, she murmurs something so low he almost misses it. “I’ve never loved anyone like this.”

He wraps his arms around her. Kisses her forehead. “Me either.”

The next morning, Fernando sees them walk in together. She’s wearing Lance’s hoodie. Lance is carrying both coffees. Fernando watches them sit. Watches her tuck herself into Lance’s side like she’s meant to be there. Watches Lance press a kiss to the top of her head without even thinking about it.

He doesn’t say a word. But for the first time, he doesn’t look away either.

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lottiecentric · 17 hours ago

Text

t4t4t headcanons! | 🚬🫀

summary : headcanons about being in a trans4trans4trans relationship with travnat :3

pairings: transmasc!travis martinez x nonbinary!reader x transfem!natalie scatorccio

warnings: gender dysphoria

notes: no-crash, modern au. reader’s assigned gender is supposed to be ambiguous!! they are referred to using they/them. for writing purposes, travis is transmasc, nat is transfem, and reader is nonbinary! hope you all enjoy :]

— travis still gets giddy when you or nat refer to him as your boyfriend! his favorite pet names/compliments to be called are pretty boy & handsome

— nat doesn’t say out loud just how much she enjoys being called feminine pet names, honorifics, or compliments, but her flushed face usually gives her away! just calling her by her full name will have her melting

— travis has a binder—you constantly have to remind him to take breaks using it because he hates his chest and is quite forgetful. one time he fell asleep in it and couldn’t breathe right for like an hour; you’ve made sure to check how long he’s been wearing it ever since then…

— nat teaches trav how to shave his face !!

— depending on your preferred clothing presentation, you definitely steal the clothing of either bat or travis. like, a lot. they also give you their hand-me-downs of old clothing they no longer wear if it’s your style!

— travis has some internalized (trans)misogyny; you and nat help him learn to get out of it and also express himself without caring how he “should act”!

— travis always needs help with his t-shot; needles freak him out so bad! one of you (usually you) need to hold his hand while the other (usually nat) prepares everything and gives him the actual shot!

— nat, in return, always asks for help applying her estrogen patches! she doesn’t really need any, but it makes travis feel better about needing help with his shots :]

— when travis gets his period, he gets so sick and sad…you always make him soup, watch his favorite shows with him, and provide anything else he wants! nat tries to help too, but her approach is more so making him laugh !!

— nat loves to be held !! run your fingers through her hair and whisper sweet nothings and she’ll be putty in your hands :3

— nat spinning around in a new skirt or dress you bought her…it makes her so happy!! she laughs and laughs and kisses all over your face because she feels so loved <3

— travis’ newfound facial hair scratching your face…you both can’t stop giggling!

— when you’re feeling dysphoric, they both pull out all the stops. they kiss you all over, assuring that you look perfect; perfect, because you’re you! you make their days so much brighter >3<

— they’re both very quick to correct people on your pronouns! they don’t have as much trouble with misgendering as they get further into their transitions, but they’re very protective of you if you do have that problem !!

— you & travis always make sure to carry everything for nat. you open doors for her, buy her things…gotta give her the full princess girlfriend treatment!!

#💭. thoughts #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets x you #nat scatorccio x reader #nat scatorccio x you #natalie scatorccio x reader #natalie scatorccio x you #travis martinez x reader #travis martinez x you #self indulgence at its finest #travnat x reader #travnat x you

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fableforger · 2 days ago

Note

The mind control ask gave me an idea for something more lighthearted (and straight out of a cartoon 😂).

How would the ROs react to an MC who not only gets hypnotized afer confidently declaring they can't be hypnotized, but then confesses their feelings for the RO?

For context: 👉🏻 Previous Mind Control Ask

Hello! First of all, thank you so much for the ask - even if it took me forever to respond. Shame on me 🙈

But now, finally:

Beware: Since this is a RO-related ask, there may be minor spoilers ahead. Please keep scrolling if you’d prefer to stay unspoiled.

..............................................................................................................................

You swore - loudly, confidently, possibly with crossed arms and a raised brow -

“I can’t be hypnotized.”

Not you. Never. Impossible.

Two seconds later:

Blank eyes. Slack jaw.

And then, in a voice sweet as honey:

“I think about your hands way more than I should.”

Theron / Thera

Covers their mouth. Not in shock, but in order not to laugh.

They are far too polite to interrupt - but the corners of their mouth are definitely shaking.

You’re lying in the grass, whispering about how their eyes look like moss in the rain.

They just nod. Calmly.

“Very interesting. Please continue.”

Normally, they wouldn’t listen to words drawn out by anything unnatural.

They don’t believe in forced truths.

But this time… they can’t help themselves.

Because you are just so unbearably adorable.

Dorian / Dione

Collapses. Laughs so hard they choke on air.

“I will never let you forget this.”

Pulls out a scroll. Starts writing. Title: ‘Things You Said While Hypnotized Vol. I’

You are now a one-person comedy show and they are the live audience you never asked for.

Gods help you.

---

Alexos / Alexa

Their soul visibly leaves their body.

They try to tell themselves:

“They’re hypnotized. They’re not themselves. This means nothing.”

This means everything and they know it.

They try to stop you. Not for your sake - for theirs.

Because they cannot handle you complimenting their hands the whole time.

They spend the next five minutes trying to unhypnotize you with sheer willpower. Doesn’t work. But looks very intimidating.

---

Zephiron / Zephyra

You have exactly one second of smug superiority:

“See? Hypnosis is just -”

Bam. You drop like a stone. Eyes glassy. Voice dreamy.

You start muttering something about how they “move like a snowflake… and… beautiful hair.”

They blink. Then they laugh. Slowly.

And lean in, clearly enjoying every second.

“And how do you think my lips taste, hmm?”

Ohhh, you are so deeply doomed.

“And what’s your favorite part of my body?”

Theron/Thera has to step in - not just to save you from them,

but from yourself.

Drakon

He stands there, arms crossed. Blank expression. Watches the disaster unfold in real time.

You, lovingly:

“You’re like a tragic sunset. I love that.”

Him, blinking once:

“What.”

And then - unexpectedly - he gets angry.

Not at you. At the spell.

Because how dare this ridiculous hypnosis make you say things you didn’t choose to.

He prefers you in your right state of mind.

Even if that mind is sometimes stubborn, annoying, or argumentative.

He strides over and just picks you up - either slinging you over his shoulder or tucking you under one arm, depending on your height and dignity.

Then, after a few steps, he pauses.

“Fine. I’m curious. …Explain the sunset.”

---

???

Gasps. Loudly.

“OH! Is it working?! IS IT ACTUALLY WORKING?!”

She crouches down in front of you like she’s watching a butterfly emerge from its cocoon.

“What’s it like? What do you see? Do you feel warm on the inside? Say something cute!!”

You blink slowly. Murmur something emotional.

While you’re still under, mid-confession, she’s already raising her hand.

“I volunteer to go next!!”

Everyone else immediately agrees that this is a terrible idea.

She already says everything the moment she thinks it. She already blurts out her feelings mid-sentence without magical interference.

Hypnotizing her would be like trying to teach Poseidon how to swim. Pointless. Overkill. But she still wants to try.

Rhaelos / Rhaela

Stands perfectly still. Unmoving. Silent.

Watches as you, eyes glassy, begin your descent into hypnotized honesty.

At first, they bear it with dignified calm.

You: “Your face looks like it was carved to make people confess sins they'd never committed.”

Them: “...Noted.”

Then it gets worse.

“Your hands look like they could destroy me or cradle me. I’d let them do both.”

“You smell like cold steel and the kind of night you never forget.”

“Your entire existence is morally intimidating… and I love that.”

And then something… shifts.

A single vein at the side of their neck pulses slightly. Their jaw tightens.

A slow, creeping redness begins to climb from beneath the collar of their armor.

By the time you whisper:

“You’re the sexiest embodiment of accountability I’ve ever seen,”

they are visibly red.

They say nothing.

But they turn away.

Very slowly.

And do not look back for a long time.

#echoes of olympus #fableforge answers #answered anon #anon ask #ask answered #ro ask #zephiron #zephyra #alexa #alexos #dorian #dione #drakon #theron #thera #???#secret romance #rhaela #rhaelos

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slytherin-pen · 22 hours ago

Text

Tattle Tale

pairing: Xaden x Violet

word count: 1300

tags: jealous Xaden, past Violet x Liam, Ridoc needs a muzzle, post OS but no spoilers, my Liam lives agenda

summary: What if that one night when Liam was outside Violet’s room she hadn’t ran off to Xaden but chose Liam instead?

a/n: wow Aspen is finally writing again! it’s been a stressful month but i am slightly recharged and ready to get back to it! written for day 4 @empyreanevents

The living room at Riorson House is alive and jovial this evening. Glasses of whiskey and wine are scattered around on the coffee table and side tables near where everyone has sprawled out across worn leather couches and armchairs. The residents are laughing, drinking, and reminiscing in that warm, half-buzzed way that only happens when you’ve survived war together.

Xaden is settled with Violet tucked under his arm on the couch, his thumb lazily stroking her shoulder where her oversized sweater has slipped down. She’s smiling, legs draped over his lap, glass of wine in hand. Garrick lounges on the floor, leaning back against Imogen’s shins as she braids a strand of his hair just to annoy him. Ridoc is perched on the arm of Bodhi’s chair, Bodhi’s hand resting on his thigh. Liam and Sloane are sitting next to Imogen conversing amongst themselves, Sloane likely denying any sort of relationship with Dain to her brother for the umpteenth time.

The conversations have been harmless and light-hearted—until Ridoc opens his mouth.

“I have a few embarrassing hookup stories I could share,” Ridoc says, swirling his drink. “But nothing will beat the whole Violet and Liam situation.”

The room goes silent, everyone’s head snapping toward Ridoc. Liam and Violet’s eyes practically bulge out of their sockets. Violet subtly shakes her head but it goes unnoticed.

Sloane looks at her brother then Ridoc. “What situation?”

Ridoc blinks. “You know. First year. When Violet and Liam,” he makes an extremely unhelpful hand gesture, “you know, hooked up because Tairn was pumping dragon heat through their bond?”

It isn’t until after he’s let the cat out of the bag that he notices how Bodhi’s grip on his thigh has tightened to the point of his knuckles turning white and Xaden’s deadly glare. “Oh shit. You didn’t know,” Ridoc mutters.

Xaden turns slowly to look at Liam. “You slept with my wife.” It isn’t a question.

Violet’s eyes are wide, flitting back and forth between her husband and Liam. She does her best to spare Liam from her husband’s ire, grabbing his arm in an effort to get his attention off the blond man who looks like he’s about to faint.

“Um—yes. But it wasn’t—” she clears her throat, “it was one time and—Amari help me.” A blush quickly spreads across her face and disappears beneath the cut of her shirt.

Liam turns pale, twisting to face Xaden as Sloane stares at her brother in shock. “Technically,” Liam says quickly, “she wasn’t your wife back then. Or your girlfriend. Or even your friend, really. Which, I realize, is not helping.”

“No. It is not helping,” Garrick deadpans.

Imogen snickers behind him but quickly covers it with a cough.

“Xaden,” Violet says carefully, placing her palms on his cheek and guiding his face back to hers. “That was five years ago. It meant nothing. I was… overwhelmed and you know how…irrational it can make you and—”

“You slept with Liam.” Xaden repeats, shadows now slithering across the floor toward his feet.

Liam stands slowly, hands at his sides. “Okay, look. I can’t undo it, and honestly I thought you knew. I never would’ve kept it from you on purpose.”

“You never thought to mention it when you gave me updates about her as her bodyguard?” Xaden snaps, finally rising from the couch, shadows rising with him.

“Honestly you guys hardly liked each other at the time and it wasn’t just my business to tell you—” He wisely cuts himself off. “Okay. Yeah. No, you’re right. I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“I think I’m about to witness a murder,” Ridoc whispers.

“Shh,” Bodhi hisses to his boyfriend.

Violet scrambles to her feet between them. “Xaden, don’t you dare hit him!”

Xaden doesn’t answer. His eyes are locked on Liam’s, dark and unflinching, the air thick with tension.

Liam doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. “Just hit me already and get it over with,” he says, jaw set. He knows it’s coming. They all do.

Xaden steps forward.

Everyone tenses. But instead of punching him, Xaden reaches out and slaps Liam on the shoulder. Hard. Then pulls him into a short, bruising hug.

“You’re lucky you’re my brother,” Xaden growls into his ear.

Liam lets out a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and a wheeze. “I… appreciate the restraint?”

Xaden steps back and returns to the couch, reclaiming his seat like nothing happened.

Violet is frozen in place, jaw dropped. “Did that just—” she stammers.

“End without bloodshed?” Imogen finishes. “I think so?”

Liam slowly sinks back onto the couch, blinking like he’s been concussed. Garrick passes him his drink without a word, eyes still on Xaden as if the man might jump up and fight Liam after all.

“You seriously slept with Violet?” Sloane whispers to her brother.

“Yes,” Liam mutters under his breath.

Sloane’s mouth gapes like a fish. “And you never told me?”

“Can we not talk about this right now?” Liam asks, and Sloane nods but her face says they will definitely be talking about this later.

“Well, that was a close one,” Ridoc says, slapping his hands down on his knees, his usual grin back on his face. “Never bringing up old hookups again. Lesson learned. Loud and clear.”

“Please,” Violet huffs, flopping into Xaden’s side again. “You’ll forget in a few days and bring something else up that will nearly start a brawl.”

“That’s not true,” Ridoc argues. “I can keep my mouth shut.” He looks to his boyfriend for backup but all Bodhi does is smile and bring him in for a kiss.

Xaden tightens his arm around Violet, kissing the top of her head. “I’m fine,” he mutters.

“You’re definitely not fine,” she says, amused now. “You’re still glaring.”

“This is just my face.”

Liam snorts. “That’s definitely your ‘plotting murder’ face.”

“Shut up,” Xaden calls.

“Yep. Got it.”

“You’re going to bring this up in every argument forever, aren’t you?” Violet asks, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Absolutely,” he replies.

Garrick lifts his glass. “To getting through another gathering without killing each other!”

“To Ridoc keeping his mouth shut next time,” Violet adds.

They all clink drinks and somehow the room finds its rhythm again. Laughter trickles back into the space, slow and hesitant but genuine. Ridoc makes a joke about how at least Violet didn’t sleep with him, and Garrick fake gags loud enough to make Bodhi laugh so hard he spills his drink.

Xaden never lets go of Violet again that night. His hand stays on her thigh, or her shoulder, or the small of her back like a silent claim.

Later, as the group disperses for the evening and Ridoc mutters a soft apology as he heads upstairs, Liam lingers behind.

“I really didn’t mean to keep that from you,” he says quietly.

Xaden studies him. “I know.”

“You’re not going to try to kill me in my sleep, right?”

“No.”

“But you considered it?”

“Briefly.”

Liam sighs. “Fair.”

They clasp their forearms, and it’s settled. Just like that.

When Xaden walks into the bedroom where Violet is brushing her hair at the vanity, she smiles at him in the mirror. “You okay now?” she asks.

“No.”

She laughs.

“I’m never letting you be alone with Liam again,” Xaden says as removes his shirt.

“Please,” she says dryly. “It was a moment of dragon sex induced weakness. Don’t get me wrong, Liam is cute, but golden boys aren’t really my type.”

Xaden walks over, wraps his arms around her from behind, and rests his chin on her shoulder. “What is your type, then?”

“Possessive assholes, apparently,” she says with a smirk.

He meets her eyes in the mirror. “You’re mine.”

She turns around to face him, a soft smile gracing her face. “I always have been.”

#fourth wing #iron flame #onyx storm #the empyrean #rebecca yarros #riorgailweek2025 #riorgail #riorgail fic #xaden x violet #violet sorrengail #violet x xaden #xaden riorson #fourth wing fic

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kaizzz · 3 days ago

Text

Part ll

——

Part l Part ll Part lll

Title: The Bloom Beneath The Silence

—

It starts after a long training run.

You’re helping Tuffnut wrangle Barf and Belch back into their stall. The sun’s setting, your braid’s a mess, and your arms ache in a good way.

You’re laughing — really laughing — as Tuffnut nearly faceplants in a pile of wet straw. Again.

“That’s the third time this week,” you snort, tossing a brush his way.

“Gravity has a crush on me,” he says, puffing out his chest. “Can’t keep her hands off.”

You roll your eyes and keep brushing. Just another moment of chaos, laughter, ease.

You think you’ve hidden it well.

Until he speaks.

Quiet. Calm.

Too calm for Tuffnut.

“Y’know, your laugh sounds different when we’re alone.”

You freeze. Just for a second.

Then smirk over your shoulder. “What, you writing poetry now?”

“Pshh. Please. Poetry’s for people with fewer issues.”

He tosses straw at your face. You dodge it.

But he doesn’t drop it.

“I’m not asking what’s wrong,” he adds after a pause. “But I’ve seen you go quiet when no one’s looking. And you hold your chest when you think no one notices.”

You say nothing.

“And don’t give me that ‘forge dust’ crap again. It’s not forge dust if it happens in the middle of the woods.”

You slowly look up from your brush.

And he’s just standing there — no jokes, no dramatic poses. Just Tuffnut. Tall, crooked, a little too observant for someone who once tried to marry a rock.

“I’m not asking,” he says again, gentler this time.

“But if something is wrong… I got you, okay?”

You stare at him.

You could lie. Laugh. Say something sarcastic.

Instead, you just say:

“…Okay.”

And he nods. Like that’s enough.

For now.

⸻

Later that night, you press a cloth to your nose again.

You don’t cry.

But it’s the first time someone’s seen you in weeks.

Even if they don’t know what they’re seeing.

—-

You’re sitting on the edge of the docks, boots dangling just above the water, sharpening a blade you haven’t had reason to use in days.

It’s peaceful here.

Until Astrid drops down beside you, relaxed in a way few people ever get to see her.

You don’t mind the company. She’s quiet at first, like you are.

The waves lap. The whetstone scrapes.

And then, casually, like it’s nothing, she says:

“So… Snotlout and Minden, huh?”

Your hand stills. Just briefly.

You glance at her out of the corner of your eye. “What about them?”

She shrugs. “I dunno. Just seems like it’s becoming a thing.”

You force your hand to keep moving, the soft scrape of metal against stone covering the silence between her words and your thoughts.

“I mean, he’s different around her,” she adds. “Less performative. It’s kind of… nice.”

You nod. Just once. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

Because it does.

Minden is calm. Kind. She listens. She fits.

Astrid doesn’t see the way your grip tightens. The way your jaw clenches before you breathe out through your nose and keep sharpening.

“You okay?” she asks suddenly, glancing at you.

You smile, easy. Perfect.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

She doesn’t push.

No one ever does.

⸻

Later, you pass by the stables.

You don’t mean to stop.

But there they are.

Snotlout and Minden,

She’s laughing. He’s close. Too close. Not quite touching, but it’s the kind of space two people leave when they want to be touching.

She leans in. He doesn’t pull away.

You don’t hear what they’re saying.

You don’t need to.

⸻

You keep walking.

You go straight to the forge. You don’t work. You don’t build. You just sit on the bench in the far corner, back to the wall, arms around your knees.

Your chest feels like something heavy’s sitting on it.

Not enough to break you.

Just enough to keep you from breathing deeply.

—

You’re sitting outside the forge, staring at the ocean.

Not doing anything. Not fixing. Not working. Just… being.

It’s late. Everyone else is either asleep or pretending to be. The night air is cool, salt-wet, and soft against your skin.

You don’t hear Tuffnut approach.

But then he’s there. Dropping down beside you without a word, plopping a small, half-burnt muffin in your lap.

“Peace offering,” he says. “For no reason.”

You raise a brow. “I’m not mad at you.”

“Yeah,” he says. “But you look like the kind of person who needs a muffin anyway.”

You don’t argue.

You don’t eat it either.

You just let it sit there between you, warm against your leg.

⸻

He doesn’t speak again for a while. He just hums something tuneless, rocking back and forth with his knees pulled to his chest.

Eventually, he says, quiet:

“Still not asking.”

You nod.

“Still not ready to tell you.”

He shrugs like it doesn’t hurt. “Cool.”

A beat passes.

Then—

“…But I’ve been getting nosebleeds.”

Your voice barely breaks the silence.

It’s so quiet afterward you almost pretend you didn’t say it.

But he turns to you, eyes a little wider, softer than you’ve ever seen them.

“That why you’ve been skipping lunch?”

You shrug.

He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t tell anyone.

He just… stays.

⸻

You lean your head against the wooden post behind you, eyes closed, voice small:

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then I won’t.”

A pause.

“But if you do?”

You glance sideways.

He’s looking out at the water.

Not at you.

Not making it harder.

Just there.

“I’ll still be here.”

⸻

You don’t say thank you.

You don’t cry.

You just let the silence stretch.

For once, it feels safe.

—

It’s sparring day.

The sun’s out, the sand’s dry, and the Edge is alive with motion — swords clashing, dragons roaring overhead, voices barking orders and laughter from every direction.

You’re paired with Astrid. Fast. Ruthless. She doesn’t hold back.

That’s why you picked her.

You need the distraction.

And you keep up. Mostly.

Until halfway through the match, you misstep. A spin too fast, a parry too high. You recover — barely.

But then it hits you.

A hot pulse in your face.

A familiar sting in your sinuses.

You pause, eyes narrowing, head swimming. You blink, steady yourself—

—and that’s when Astrid knocks your blade from your hands.

“(Y/N), you okay?”

You step back. Nodding quickly. Too quickly.

“Fine. Just—distracted.”

She frowns, studying you. But lets it go.

You bend to pick up your sword.

And a droplet of blood hits the sand.

Bright. Red. Stark against the pale grit.

⸻

You wipe your nose with your sleeve like it’s nothing.

Like you’re fine.

But someone sees.

“Hey—whoa, you’re bleeding.”

Tuffnut. His voice is closer than you expected. He’s halfway across the ring before you can even respond.

You press your sleeve tighter to your nose. Shake your head.

“It’s nothing. Just dry air. I’m fine.”

But your hand trembles.

And that’s when you realize: Snotlout’s watching.

He’s standing off to the side with Minden, half a laugh caught on his face like it got stuck in his throat.

You meet his eyes for a second.

And you see it.

The hesitation.

The concern.

The confusion.

He takes a step forward.

But Tuffnut is already there — hand at your back, steady, quiet.

“C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You don’t protest.

You don’t even look back.

And Snotlout?

He doesn’t follow.

—

Snotlout POV

He stop thinking about the blood.

It wasn’t a lot. Barely a smear across your sleeve. But it wasn’t normal. And the way you brushed it off, like it was nothing — that’s what unsettles him most.

Because you don’t just brush things off. Not when it’s real. Not when it matters.

And yet, you didn’t even flinch.

You didn’t look scared.

You looked… resigned.

⸻

He meant to check on you.

After training.

After the others had left.

But by the time he got to the forge, you were already gone.

Tuffnut said you needed rest.

Snotlout just nodded and didn’t ask questions.

Not out loud, anyway.

⸻

The next day, you’re back at it.

Flirting with Tuffnut. Sparring. Laughing.

Business as usual.

But now? He’s watching you differently.

He notices the pause you take before swinging. The second longer it takes to catch your breath. The way your hand lingers at your ribs when you think no one’s looking.

He doesn’t say anything.

Because what would he even say?

“Hey, I noticed you bled on the sand yesterday and looked like you might pass out. Wanna talk?”

You’d laugh in his face.

So instead, he watches.

Quiet. Careful.

And for the first time, he finds himself wondering—

When did you stop looking at me?

Because you used to.

He remembers that now. How your gaze used to linger when he talked, even when you rolled your eyes. How your laugh sounded different when it was meant for him.

Now?

You look at Tuffnut.

And whatever you’re holding inside… it’s not meant for Snotlout anymore.

⸻

That night, he stares at the ceiling of his hut, arms folded behind his head, jaw tight.

He doesn’t understand why it bothers him.

Why he keeps replaying your expression after the nosebleed. Why it stings that Tuffnut got to you first. That you let him.

He tells himself it’s nothing.

That you’re fine.

But the feeling in his chest says otherwise.

And it won’t go away.

—-

You find him waiting outside the forge.

It’s rare, seeing him without the usual bravado. No puffed chest, no cocky smirk, no bad jokes about how the flames match his “smoking hot personality.”

Just Snotlout.

Quiet. Fidgeting with the strap of his bracer.

You stop a few feet away, holding a pouch of freshly sharpened arrowheads.

“Hey.”

He looks up, like he wasn’t expecting you.

Even though he clearly was.

“Hey,” he echoes. Then pauses. “You… feeling okay?”

You smile.

Soft. Reassuring.

Because you know what he’s thinking about.

Because you know what he saw.

“I’m fine, Snotlout. Really.”

His eyes search your face. Not like he doubts you. More like he wants to believe it — needs to.

“It just looked bad. The nosebleed, I mean.”

You nod, stepping past him into the forge. You set the pouch down gently.

He follows, hesitantly.

“If there’s something going on, you can tell me, y’know,” he says, voice lower now. “You don’t have to act like it’s all—”

“I’m not acting.”

You turn to face him, calm and steady, voice warm but measured.

“It’s nothing serious. Just the forge, maybe some stress. I’ve been pushing too hard.”

That last part? Not a lie.

Just not the whole truth.

He exhales, relief softening the worry in his face.

And it kills you, a little.

Because he looks so glad to believe you’re okay.

And you hate how much it hurts to lie to someone you still love this quietly.

“You sure?” he asks again.

You nod.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Snotlout. I’m tougher than I look.”

He chuckles — just a little. And for a moment, he looks like the boy you used to dream about when you thought maybe he’d see you.

He gives you a smile. Not the flirty kind. Not the loud, showy one he gives everyone else.

A real one.

“Yeah. I guess you always have been.”

You smile back.

But when he leaves…

You press your hand to your ribs again, just below your heart.

And you breathe slow.

Because if he’s relieved, then you’ve done your job.

—

He should feel better.

You told him you’re okay.

You smiled — not forced, not fake — and said he didn’t have to worry.

You even made a joke about being tougher than you look.

And Snotlout believed you.

He did.

He’s always been good at accepting what people say, not questioning what they don’t.

So why is he still lying awake?

⸻

He keeps replaying the moment in the forge.

The calm way you answered. The way you looked him in the eye. How your voice didn’t shake.

It all felt real.

But the more he thinks about it…

You never used to look at him like that.

Like you were keeping him at arm’s length.

Like you were comforting him instead of letting him comfort you.

He hates how long it took him to notice that difference.

⸻

Minden finds him the next morning near the cliffs, watching the sunrise and picking at a cracked piece of dragon armor.

“Didn’t think you were a sunrise type,” she says, sitting beside him.

He shrugs. “I’m not. Just… couldn’t sleep.”

She bumps her shoulder against his. “Thinking too hard? That’s dangerous territory for you.”

He laughs, but it dies quickly.

She watches him a moment.

“You okay?”

He looks at her.

She’s kind. Easy to be around. Likes him in a way that doesn’t make him feel like he’s got something to prove.

But she’s not the one stuck in his head.

“Do you think…” he starts, then stops.

Minden tilts her head.

“What?”

“…You think someone could be hurting and still act totally fine? Like, not just hiding it, but like… convincing you they’re fine even when they’re not?”

She blinks.

“Yeah. All the time.”

“You’re talking about (Y/N), aren’t you?”

He looks away. “She said she’s fine.”

Minden’s quiet.

“She also looked like she was about to collapse in the sparring ring. People don’t usually bleed out of nowhere for fun.”

Snotlout’s jaw tightens.

He hates this feeling. Of not knowing. Of realizing he might’ve missed something important.

Of wondering when you stopped needing him — or if you ever did at all.

“I just… I don’t get it,” he mutters.

“She used to tell me stuff.”

Minden’s voice is gentle.

“Maybe you stopped being the one she trusted to tell.”

He doesn’t answer.

Because he doesn’t know if that’s true.

Or if it just hurts to consider that it is.

—

You wake up with your throat already raw.

Not from sleep. Not from yelling.

Just… tight. Like your lungs forgot how to breathe overnight.

You sit up slowly, hands trembling slightly as you press them to your ribs.

Still no petals.

But the cough that comes next drags something up anyway — not quite blood, not quite clean.

You spit quietly into a rag.

Wipe it away before your dragon stirs beside you.

⸻

Later, by the cliffs, the sky is pale and overcast. A perfect day for hiding.

You sit with your journal open but untouched, pen hovering over the page.

You think about writing to yourself.

You think about the moment in the forge, when Snotlout looked at you like maybe — maybe — he still saw something in you.

Then you remember how fast he left after you told him what he wanted to hear.

He believed you.

Because it was easier.

Because you made it easier.

And that’s what you do, isn’t it?

Make things easier for everyone.

Even when your lungs are a battlefield and your hands keep shaking during patrol.

⸻

You glance toward the main camp and see him — talking with Minden again, their shoulders close, her hand brushing his arm in passing.

You look away.

You don’t flinch.

You don’t react.

You just write:

Day 5: symptoms lingered past noon.

No nosebleed. Coughing worse.

Hid it.

Tuffnut knows something.

Snotlout suspects nothing.

That’s how I want it.

If he ever looks again, I want it to be because he chose to.

Not because I was breaking.

⸻

You tuck the journal away. Not because it’s done.

Just because you can’t stand to read your own handwriting anymore.

—

It happens fast, the next symptoms that is. Just a scouting mission, nothing risky. Until it happened.

You’re in formation, high over the canyon ridge. A simple recon mission — until it’s not.

The ambush comes from above. Arrows cutting through the air, dragon shrieks echoing against the stone walls.

Chaos explodes in seconds.

You veer hard to the left, narrowly dodging a bolt meant for your shoulder. Your dragon jerks midair, roaring in pain as a grazing hit slices across their wing.

You’re fine. You’re okay.

You move to recover — but then another arrow cuts too close. You twist—

—and lose your footing.

Your fingers miss the saddle straps. Your foot slips. The world tilts.

And you’re falling.

⸻

Everything slows.

You hear the wind rush.

Your dragon’s roar as they twist, trying to follow.

And out of the corner of your eye — just as the weightlessness hits — you see her.

Minden.

Falling, too. Hit square in the ribs. Razorwhip spiraling.

And Snotlout?

He dives.

No hesitation. No looking around. No second thoughts.

Straight for her.

Like instinct. Like gravity.

Like choice.

⸻

And that?

That’s the moment.

Not the impact.

Not the sky.

Not the arrow.

That.

That’s what rips you open.

Because you don’t expect him to choose you.

Not anymore.

But now… now you know he wouldn’t.

⸻

You close your eyes.

You don’t scream.

You don’t panic.

You just… let go.

The air feels cold against your skin. Your heartbeat slows.

And for a second, a small part of you thinks:

Maybe it’s easier this way.

—

Then someone grabs you.

Hard.

Arms around your waist, sharp jerk upward, wind blasting in your face.

You gasp — the first breath you’ve taken in what feels like forever.

And then you hear him.

“You’re not dying on me, you hear me?!”

Tuffnut.

Of course it’s him.

Of all people. Of all moments.

It’s Tuffnut who dives.

Not as a statement. Not as a symbol.

But because he saw you.

Because he looked.

⸻

He lands rough. Messy. Both dragons scrambling. Your knees hit the dirt hard, vision flickering white at the edges.

Your chest heaves. Your throat burns.

You cough — once, twice.

You taste blood.

And Tuffnut doesn’t say a word.

He just holds you up, arms steady as the world spins.

“I got you,” he mutters.

“Even if no one else did.”

—

You’re sitting against a boulder, knees pulled to your chest, Tuffnut crouched in front of you, arms braced on either side like a human barricade.

You can’t breathe right.

Your ribs ache like they’ve been splintered from the inside, and every inhale feels like swallowing shards.

Your vision pulses.

Your ears ring.

And then it happens — a thick, wet cough tearing up your throat. You barely manage to turn your head before the blood hits your glove.

“Okay. Okay, it’s okay—”

Tuffnut’s voice is shaking now, but his hands are steady.

He doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t yell.

He just moves.

Puts himself in front of you, back to the canyon, blocking the view of the others regrouping in the distance.

“Don’t let them see,” you rasp, voice barely audible over the static in your ears.

And he nods.

Because he understands.

He ducks lower, making his body wider, hunching protectively to hide you.

“Hey,” he says softly, reaching up with one sleeve to wipe blood from your chin, “You’re good. You’re okay. No one’s looking.”

But that’s a lie.

Because he is.

And what he sees now terrifies him.

⸻

You feel something warm drip past your jaw.

You touch your ear.

More blood.

And something inside you folds.

But not aloud. Not externally.

Because if you start to cry now — if you fall apart now — you won’t come back from it.

So you bury it. Again.

And Tuffnut doesn’t stop you.

He just sits with you like a wall, like a shield, like a friend who knows better than to ask questions you’re not ready to answer.

⸻

In the distance, someone calls your name.

It’s Snotlout’s voice.

You stiffen.

Tuffnut looks at you.

“You want me to tell him you’re fine?”

You nod. Quickly. Almost too quickly.

And Tuffnut stands up, cracks his back like nothing happened, throws a thumbs-up over the ridge and yells,

“All good over here! Just a little tumble!”

No one questions it.

No one comes closer.

Because they believe him.

⸻

He crouches beside you again once they’re gone, face serious in a way that feels wrong on him.

“This is bad, huh?”

You nod once.

Just once.

“You gonna let me help?”

Another nod.

But only him.

Only him.

—

Tuffnut hut is empty, but you don’t sleep on it.

You’re sitting on the floor instead, back pressed against the wall, blanket around your shoulders, knees tucked up to your chest.

It’s well past midnight.

The fire’s burned low. The air smells faintly of herbs and metal. The room is still.

Tuffnut sits across from you, legs crossed, braid undone, gaze tired but steady.

He hasn’t asked questions. Not since the fall.

He doesn’t need to.

⸻

You’re the one who breaks the silence.

“I think I know what this is.”

He doesn’t move.

But his whole body goes still, like he’s holding his breath.

You swallow around the ache in your throat.

“It lines up. The chest pain. The coughing. The bleeding. The way it only started when…”

You trail off. You don’t need to finish.

He already knows what you mean.

“It’s… stupid,” you murmur. “My body’s trying to kill me because I love someone who doesn’t love me back.”

Tuffnut says nothing. Just watches you.

Gives you space.

You let the words sit between you for a moment before continuing.

“If I’m right… and it is hanahaki… I’ll need to do something about it soon.”

You don’t look at him when you say the next part.

“There’s a procedure. Removal.”

“You’ll live,” he says softly.

You nod.

“But I won’t be able to love again. Not the same way.”

It doesn’t sound dramatic. It doesn’t sound like a tragedy.

You say it like a fact. Like a plan. Like choosing a path in the woods because it’s the only one not on fire.

“I don’t want to die over something that was never mine to begin with.”

Tuffnut exhales slowly, leaning his head back against the wall.

“That’s heavy.”

You let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. Almost.

“Yeah.”

Another silence. Long. Gentle.

Then—

“If you do it,” he says, “I’m not gonna tell you it’s wrong. I’m not gonna try to stop you.”

You look at him.

“But just so you know—if you ever want someone to remember what you felt, or who it was for…”

He lifts a hand, taps his temple.

“I’ll hold it. In here. As long as you need.”

You feel something tighten in your chest — not pain, not love — but something close to comfort.

Something that makes the room feel just a little warmer.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He nods.

And neither of you says anything else for a long time.

—

He didn’t think much of it at first.

Just another sparring injury. Another fall. You’d brushed it off. Tuffnut had waved and shouted something dumb about “catching like a hero.” Everyone moved on.

But it’s been different since then.

You’re different.

Still the same laugh. Still that dry, sharp wit that cuts through training tension like a blade.

But you don’t laugh with him anymore.

Not like you used to.

Now it’s Tuffnut.

You walk beside him after missions. You sit with him during meals. You nudge him when he says something dumb instead of rolling your eyes like before.

And maybe no one else thinks twice about it.

But Snotlout?

He notices.

Because he remembers that mission.

He remembers diving — not for you.

For Minden.

⸻

He’d seen you falling.

Just for a second.

A shape tumbling through the sky.

But then he saw Minden, bleeding, screaming—

And he chose.

He told himself it wasn’t a choice.

It was instinct.

But now?

Now when he sees you look at Tuffnut the way you used to glance at him?

He wonders if maybe that was instinct too.

⸻

He remembers the way Tuffnut held you afterward.

How protective he was.

How he didn’t joke.

And you? You let him.

Didn’t push him away.

Didn’t say “I’m fine” with that smile you always wore for Snotlout.

You just let Tuffnut see you.

⸻

Today, he watches from a distance as you sit near the forge, leaning against a crate, laughing at something Tuffnut’s saying.

You look tired, but not unhappy.

And he tells himself that’s what matters.

But a voice in the back of his head whispers something he doesn’t want to hear:

You didn’t catch her.

He did.

—

—Snotlout’s POV

He notices it again during training.

You’re moving slower.

Not limping, not obviously hurt — just a half-step off. Just enough to make someone like Astrid frown. Just enough to make Snotlout watch you closer.

But before he can say anything, Tuffnut steps in.

Literally.

Slides between you and the others, claps a hand on your shoulder, cracks a joke about “muscle fatigue” and “too many hero landings,” and shifts the group’s focus instantly.

And you?

You smile. Play along.

Like always.

But Snotlout sees the way you lean into Tuffnut’s side just a little.

Like you’re steadying yourself.

⸻

He pulls Tuffnut aside later.

He doesn’t plan to. It just happens.

The words come out before he can stop them.

“She okay?”

Tuffnut’s whole posture changes.

He doesn’t joke.

Doesn’t smirk.

Just studies Snotlout for a long, quiet second.

“She’s handling it.”

It’s not an answer.

Snotlout crosses his arms. “What does that mean?”

“It means you don’t need to worry.”

Snotlout frowns. “Since when do you get to decide that?”

And then Tuffnut does something rare.

He drops the act.

No grin. No sarcasm.

Just quiet intensity.

“Since I caught her when you didn’t.”

Snotlout’s breath hitches — just slightly.

And Tuffnut doesn’t press. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t accuse.

He just says:

“You didn’t do anything wrong.

But you don’t get to ask questions now just because you’re finally looking.”

Then he turns and walks off, back toward the forge.

Back to you.

⸻

Snotlout stays where he is for a long time.

Listening to the waves crash, watching the sky darken.

And for the first time in a long time… he doesn’t know what to do.

Because someone else saw you falling.

And they were fast enough.

You’re fine.

You keep telling yourself that.

The coughs aren’t as bad this week.

The blood’s less frequent.

The pressure in your chest? Manageable.

You’ve gotten better at hiding it. At knowing when to disappear and how long you can fake it before the shaking in your limbs betrays you.

But today?

Today is harder.

—-

The training ground is loud. Dragons circling. Blades clashing. Snotlout laughing at something Ruffnut said.

You’re helping Fishlegs with gear repairs, sitting on the edge of a crate, hands moving slower than usual, fingers not quite gripping the buckles right.

You feel it before it happens — that familiar flutter deep in your chest, like wings beating too fast inside your ribs.

You close your eyes. Breathe shallow. Wait for it to pass.

It doesn’t.

⸻

Your lungs seize.

A cough claws its way out of you, sharper than expected. You turn away quickly, into your sleeve, forcing it down. But the second one comes harder.

You bite the inside of your cheek. Focus. Control it.

But your vision’s blurring.

The sun feels too bright.

And something warm drips past your lip.

Blood.

⸻

Not now.

Not here.

You stand quickly — too quickly — and stumble.

Someone’s voice calls your name.

Not Tuffnut. Not yet.

Someone else.

You wipe your mouth and keep walking.

One step. Two. Around the edge of the shed, out of sight. You press your palm against the wall to steady yourself, willing your heart to slow down.

Your ears are ringing.

But you’re not going to fall.

Not again.

⸻

A shadow stretches across the ground beside you.

You look up, breath catching.

Tuffnut.

Of course.

He doesn’t speak. He just steps in front of you like a wall again, glancing once toward the sound of Snotlout’s voice somewhere nearby.

“He saw you coughing,” Tuffnut murmurs. “You want me to cover it?”

You nod.

Wipe your mouth again.

“Please.”

And just like that — he turns, walks back around the corner, throws a ridiculous fake coughing fit of his own loud enough to draw attention.

“Fishlegs! You ever inhaled yak fur by accident?! Asking for a friend!”

Laughter follows.

Distraction achieved.

⸻

You lean your head back against the wall. Chest burning. Hands shaking.

Almost.

You almost didn’t make it.

And the worst part?

No one would’ve known why.

—

It’s late when you finally sit down.

Not in your hut. Not in the forge.

But at the edge of the cliffs, where the air is cooler and no one thinks to look.

Except Tuffnut.

He finds you easily.

Of course he does.

He doesn’t speak right away. He just drops down beside you, cross-legged, his braid half-undone and an entire bread roll sticking out of his mouth.

You snort softly.

He tears it in half and holds the rest out to you without a word.

You take it.

⸻

You eat in silence.

The breeze pulls gently at your sleeves. Your head still aches. Your ribs are sore.

But it’s bearable.

Because for once, you don’t have to pretend.

Not here.

Not with him.

⸻

“You looked worse than usual today,” he says eventually.

You hum. “Thanks for the compliment.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

You sigh. Lean your head against his shoulder — not because you’re fragile, not because you want comfort, but because you’re tired.

“It’s getting harder to hide,” you admit.

He’s quiet for a beat too long.

“You should tell them.”

You shake your head.

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

You shrug.

You don’t say:

Because I’m not ready for them to look at me with pity.

Because I don’t want Snotlout to look at me and feel guilty instead of—

You just shrug again.

Tuffnut doesn’t push.

He never does.

⸻

You watch the ocean turn to silver under the moonlight.

“Do you ever wonder what it’d feel like,” you say, “to be the one someone runs toward?”

Tuffnut doesn’t answer right away.

Then, soft:

“You’re the one I ran toward.”

You close your eyes.

Not because it hurts.

But because that’s the kindest thing anyone’s said to you in weeks.

⸻

You don’t cry.

But you let the silence wrap around you like a blanket, and for the first time in a long time, you feel warm.

Not whole.

Not better.

But warm.

—-

The cliffs are quiet again. Same spot. Same view.

Only this time, you’re the one who speaks first.

“I’ve been thinking more about the procedure.”

Tuffnut stops fiddling with the flower he’s been weaving into a crooked crown and looks up.

“Yeah?”

You nod, slowly. Carefully.

“If I want to live… it’s probably the only way.”

He doesn’t say anything, so you continue.

“But it’s risky. Not just the surgery itself. The way it affects you.”

You draw in a shallow breath, your fingers curling slightly around the edge of your sleeve.

“If it works… I’ll survive. No more coughing. No more blood. It’ll all be gone.”

You glance down at your lap.

“But so will the love.”

He stares. Quiet. Processing.

“Like… all of it?”

You nod.

“The one I have now, yes. The rest…” You pause. “It’s different for everyone. But most never feel it the same way again. It’s like… a part of your heart just goes numb.”

Tuffnut frowns.

And then, he laughs — not like he’s mocking you. But because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“You’re telling me you either die loving… or live without it?”

You smile faintly.

“Pretty poetic for something that’s going to require a surgical cut to my lungs.”

He shakes his head, fingers tightening in the half-woven flower crown. His voice drops.

“You shouldn’t have to make that choice.”

You don’t respond. Because there’s nothing to say.

Not when he’s right.

⸻

You close your eyes, letting the breeze move through your hair.

“If I do it… I need you to understand something.”

He looks over.

“What?”

“I won’t be able to love anyone again.”

The words come soft. Flat. Final.

“Not like that. Not deeply. Not fully. Not the way you deserve to be loved back.”

Tuffnut swallows. Hard.

You don’t mean it romantically — but the weight of it still lands.

“It won’t be your fault,” you add.

“But it will be gone.”

⸻

He’s silent for a long time.

Then he sets the broken flower crown beside you.

“If that happens,” he says, “then I’ll love enough for both of us.”

You don’t respond.

But your throat tightens in a way that has nothing to do with your lungs.

—

The coughs come more often now.

You time them with the wind. With dragon roars. With Tuffnut’s loudest tangents. You’re strategic.

You’re careful.

But not even the best timing hides the pain in your chest when you take too deep a breath. Or the way your hands shake when you try to hold a quill for more than a few minutes.

Your hearing fades in and out, just for seconds at a time.

Sometimes you don’t notice right away — until someone’s lips are moving and you can’t hear the words.

You don’t say anything. Not even to Tuffnut.

Because you already told him enough.

And you’re not going to make him carry more than that.

⸻

You still smile. Still train. Still spar.

But you’re conserving now.

Not living.

Just… preserving.

A few more days. A few more laughs. A few more moments before you make your choice.

And when you look across the training ground and catch Snotlout watching you, eyes narrowed in that almost-worried way…

You offer a wave.

A smile.

Something easy to believe.

And then you turn away.

Because you can’t be the one to hold out hope anymore.

⸻

Snotlout

You should’ve stopped lying to yourself weeks ago.

You know something’s wrong now — you feel it in your gut.

It’s not just the coughing. It’s not just the fall. It’s not even Tuffnut standing too close anymore.

It’s the way you move. Like you’re bracing. Like your body’s not quite yours anymore.

And it’s the way you look at him now.

Like you’re trying to memorize him.

Like you’re getting ready to leave.

⸻

He watches you from across the courtyard as you help Astrid adjust her shield harness. You laugh at something. The same sharp laugh he used to hear up close.

Now he hears it from across rooms.

Why didn’t I notice sooner?

He doesn’t know if you’re mad at him.

He doesn’t know if you’re hurting because of him.

But he knows something’s slipping through his fingers.

And for the first time, he starts to feel something that tastes a little like fear.

—

You’re at the forge again.

Not working. Not crafting. Just… sitting.

Your tools are clean, untouched. The fire’s out. You’re just letting the warmth of the stones soak into your bones, trying to forget the cold that’s been creeping in underneath your skin for days now.

You cough once. Soft.

No blood this time.

Just tightness.

Still there. Always there.

Still unloved.

⸻

The door creaks behind you.

You don’t look up.

You already know it’s him.

“Hey.”

His voice is quieter than usual. Not the cocky bark you’re used to. Not full of jokes or arrogance.

Just… soft.

Worried.

“You’ve been off lately.”

You give him a look, one brow raised. “Since when do you notice things like that?”

He smiles faintly. Shrugs. Steps closer.

“Since it started to feel wrong when you stopped talking to me first.”

That hurts more than it should.

Because it means he only noticed when it affected him.

You chuckle softly. “Didn’t think you’d miss my commentary that much.”

“I do,” he says.

You look at him then.

Really look.

And his eyes… they’re not teasing.

They’re not flirty.

They’re concerned.

But not because he knows what this is.

Just because he doesn’t know anything anymore.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Like, really okay?”

Your heart stutters.

And your body answers before your mouth can:

Your ribs ache.

Your lungs throb.

You taste iron at the back of your throat.

Still here.

Still sick.

Still unloved.

You smile.

Gentle. Convincing.

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

He stares at you. Searching.

Like he wants to believe it.

And he will. Because you made it easy.

“If you ever—” he starts.

You cut him off with a soft laugh.

“Snotlout, I’m not dying.”

Not out loud, at least.

He relaxes just a little.

“Okay… good.”

You don’t miss the way his voice catches.

And you hate how much that almost feels like enough.

But it’s not.

Because if he loved you—

If he really did—

This pain would be gone by now.

⸻

You walk past him, back straight, breath tight, and toss over your shoulder:

“See you at dinner?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

—-

He’s heading toward the stables when you stop him.

“Snotlout.”

He turns, blinking. “Yeah?”

You nod once toward the bench outside the forge.

“Sit.”

He tilts his head. “What’d I do now?”

“Nothing,” you reply. “Just sit.”

He does. A little confused. A little curious. The wind messes his hair as he flops down, arms crossed over his chest.

You walk up behind him without another word, fingers already reaching into your pocket.

He doesn’t flinch when you touch his hair. Doesn’t move.

He just… sits there.

Lets you gather the strands near the back. They’re still warm from the sun. Coarse and familiar.

You braid.

Small. Simple. Precise.

The way you always did your own.

“You’re not going to do something embarrassing, are you?” he mutters.

You roll your eyes — the smile in your voice masking everything you’re holding down.

“Your hair doesn’t look as messy like this,” you say, using the same flat, unimpressed tone you’ve always used when teasing him.

And then—without fanfare, without pause—you untie one of the thinner braids woven along the underside of your own hair.

You slip the strand loose. Tie it gently beside the one you just made for him. Not tight, but secure.

He doesn’t notice.

He doesn’t feel what you’ve just given him.

You give the braid a firm tug.

“There. Less of a disaster now.”

He snorts, rubbing the back of his head. “Didn’t know I signed up for a makeover.”

“You didn’t,” you say, stepping back. “Consider it a gift.”

He stands, brushing off his legs.

“Should I be worried about the next one being flowers and glitter?”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’d make it work.”

He grins.

You smile.

And when he walks away — laughing to himself, braid swinging gently with each step — you let the wind tangle your fingers.

He doesn’t know.

He’ll never know.

But now?

He carries a piece of you.

Even after you let the rest go.

|Part lll soon|

Author note:

I cried like a train wreck writing this piece 😭

#httyd snotlout #snotlout x reader #httyd rtte #snotlout jorgenson #hanahaki disease #angst #lots of it #deep #romance

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