#and thinking 'i feel like im forgetting something' | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

miserymorgue · 5 hours ago

Note

oh my. GOD

aight lemme just.... get me pen out.

HOLY SHIT DUDE

Repetition of “something” feels like gasping, like the narrator can’t even articulate what’s under the surface. It makes the tension physically felt. The sentence structure fractures, mirroring their restraint about to break. “Patrick shoved too hard, and Art said his name too softly" juxtaposes harsh force with softness – oh my god im freaking it. It captures that push-pull dynamic perfectly, brutal but tender, toxic but tender. “Jesus, just fuck already” well yes! adds that scathing observer realism. Ur language is clipped, teetering on confession. It’s restraint aching to become violence or vulnerability.

“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.”

“Voice curling dark” is such a sexy description omg. It shows his words wrap around her like smoke or poison. The structure builds from general to targeted cruelty: starts with a casual observation (“You know what’s wild?”) then lands like a gut punch. “He forgets how to fucking win.” The absolute contempt in that line. It implies she makes him weak, unworthy, lesser. It’s jealousy reeking of bitter superiority. its SO fucking patrick. this whole part just akes you flinch because it’s so dismissive of her and him, but also reveals deep obsession.

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.”

ur Dialogue is razor-sharp and natural, the back-and-forth has no wasted words, like verbal knives. “This isn’t about Art believing me. It’s about you not being able to believe he chose me.” That is so brutal. The phrasing strips him down to his insecurity. Repetition of ‘fucking’ intensifies aggression and scorn, typical of raw confrontations. Obsessed! “He didn’t want you the way he wanted me.” It’s the ultimate slap in the face, spoken with trembling vulnerability and triumphant cruelty. ALSO exactly what I interpreted from the actual film and what I think was part of Luca Guadaingo's intent (Tashi has Art in a way he won't), they all want each other and u understand that veryyyyy much. this whole section your chest tighten because it’s real, it’s vicious, it’s humiliating. The tension is sex and hate braided together.

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.”

“His face hardens, jaw tight…” imagery of clenched restraint, his anger is tactile. “You don’t hate me… I think you hate that you’re not in my place.” – YESSS call him out. And the crack in his expression is so fast, it’s delicious. That microreaction shows how desperately he wants control. His final line: “I want to fuck you out of it.” OH MY GOD. Hey! I'm freaking it– it implies he wants to erase her position, her power, her identity. It’s domination framed as sexual violence but deeply psychological. Sickeningly hot. It’s humiliating, it’s loaded with resentment and twisted desire.

Derogatory language: “dog,” “pathetic,” “obsessed” – humiliating degradation language intentionally dehumanising to enhance her dominance yeah dude i fucking love it. i love how control/power is always in the air. the Sensory detail, “tongue dragging up your slit like he’s trying to drown in it.” Holy fuck. That’s such vivid, smothering imagery. He’s consumed by her, reduced to pure need. power imbalance is scalding.

“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.”

That's insane “Voice low, cruelly soft”: weaponising softness. WHISPERING something cruel is always 100x more devastating. The imagery of “the shape I left” is so filthy and possessive. He’s marking her, implying he owns her body even when someone else uses it. Her reaction – shaking her head too fast, weak – shows terror and vulnerability, increasing the predatory tension. Yeahhhh dude. YEAH it’s deeply violating but written to intentionally shock and degrade – the psychological edge here is harrowing.

“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.

“You open your mouth but say nothing.” That silence is deafening. It makes her vulnerable, exposed. His satisfied smile is chilling – not angry, just possessive, assured. The line “That’s not a no” frames her non-response as consent or confession, adding moral greyness and fear. His physical control - fingers curling, hand on her hip, holding her still – shows total dominance. The smile, not angry just satsified is. so fucking art holy shit bro. yeah u fuckin get it

overall yeah i liked it ig (this is making into all time faves)

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.”

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.

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

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#misery recommends 𖤓

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peaktora · 1 day ago

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𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐋𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐀˚◞♡ ⃗ sae itoshi

MOVIE DESCRIPTION┊ the day sae proves to you that someone disrespecting you, translates to someone disrespecting him in the same fashion.

CONTENT ┊ 0.9k words. approximately one rude comment towards reader. i feel like u guys would refer to this as protective!sae, but i won’t js bc in my eyes this is like the bare minimum. featuring timid!reader (also known as deer!reader…you can find out what her personality consists of here).

AUTHORS NOTE ┊thank you for requesting mei, hopefully this is similar to what you were looking for lovely!

sae doesn’t look angry. well, to be fair—he never really looks angry.

his face is set in the same calm, unreadable nature. the signature expression that’s always kept people at a distance. even so, you can tell he’s annoyed. it’s the subtle things that give it away. for instance? his jaw is clenched, fists rigid at his sides. yet it’s his eyes that really give it away. they’re locked onto the man who made you flinch.

you’re standing beside him, clutching your sleeves with fists of your own. however, it’s for a completely different purpose. you’re hiding behind the fabric as if it’s a makeshift armor.

your eyes are wide as you whisper to sae, “it’s okay.” even though the words the stranger spoke seconds ago still made your stomach twist.

he takes a step forward toward the man.

“sae—” you call out, fingers curling tighter around the sleeves of your shirt. “don’t, it’s not worth it. i’m fine, seriously—”

he doesn’t pay any attention to your pleas. he doesn’t listen. he doesn’t need to listen, because the anger inside of him has been simmering since the moment that man opened his mouth. since he looked at you like you were something less than human—as if you were a thing to him. a thing that didn’t get to object.

“you think that’s okay?” sae’s voice is dangerously low. he doesn’t raise it, doesn’t need to in order to get his point across. “shoving her when there was all of this space on the sidewalk,” he gestures to the space around you. “and then talking to her like that?”

the man is clearly older than you. he’s just about the same height as sae, subtly swaying side to side.

was he drunk?

the man smirks, “hey, it was just a compliment. she’s cute, right? little thing like her? figured she’d like the attention.”

sae doesn’t move. and somehow, the stillness makes everything more intense.

“i’ll only say this once,” he declares. “you don’t talk to her. you don’t look at her. you don’t speak to any woman—especially her, like she’s beneath you.”

the man shoves his hands into his pockets, mindlessly chewing on his bottom lip.

“because that’s a cowardly move.”

the man scoffs, turns like he’s about to laugh it off. but then he looks into sae’s eyes and the twitch of his lips immediately falters. a string of curses flows underneath his breath as he walks off.

as soon as he leaves, you tell sae, “i’m sorry. didn’t mean for it to—”

he swiftly turns to you, “why are you apologizing?”

you open your mouth, but nothing comes out. because somehow, he can see it. that worry rimmed in your wide, soft eyes. all as if you’re expecting to be scolded.

“i didn’t want to cause a scene. it wasn’t even that bad, i just get nervous. people say stuff all the time—“ your words crumble under your own breath. “and well—okay, what im trying to say is, i don’t want to make things harder for you.”

he nods and reaches out for your hands, gently tugging them free from your sleeves. he cups them in his own, gently massaging your skin.

“someone disrespecting you,” he gives you a look over, “means they’re disrespecting me.”

you frown, “but i don’t want you to get in trouble just because of me—”

“it’s not ‘because of you’,” he interrupts. “it’s because i care.”

its those two words that echo in your head, “i care.” was he really talking about you?

you, who cries hidden away from others so no one will feel burdened? like they have to baby you? you, who forgives too quickly and forgets your own bruises just to keep the peace? you, who was never taught that being soft doesn’t mean being walked over?

“you don’t have to apologize for existing,” he reassures. “for being upset or for just being you.”

maybe it’s the calmness of his tone, or the fact that his fingers haven’t stopped absentmindedly massaging yours. either way—all of a sudden, you feel it. the lump forming in your throat begins to push further and further down.

“i just…don’t like making things worse,” your voice trembles. “i didn’t know how to say anything without sounding dramatic or i don’t know—like i was overreacting.”

“you weren’t,” he affirms. “he was out of line.”

you blink once, twice, then three times. before you know it, your lashes feel damp. you wipe your eyes, “you’re not mad at me?”

its now that his jaw finally softens, “no,” he says. “i’m mad for you.”

and though it’s just four words? that undoes you.

no one’s ever said that before. no one’s ever told you that it’s okay to take up space. that you don’t have to shrink just to keep the peace. that someone defending you isn’t a burden, it’s what unapologetic love looks like.

sae slowly eases you into his arms, “you don’t have to be small for me,” he whispers against your hair. “you never did.”

you slowly exhale, releasing yourself into his embrace. you press your cheek against his chest, heartbeat beating under your ears.

and for the first time in a long time, even though you feel like you should—you don’t say sorry. sorry for making him feel as if you hold yourself back from him. sorry for not being stronger. sorry for simply being sorry.

sorry for not seeing sooner, that in sae’s eyes? your softness is not a flaw. to him, it’s something worth protecting.

#(っˆ ³(ˊ ᵕ ˋก ) ⇢ ˗ˏˋ 𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐀 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 ࿐ྂ #the name of this has meaning i swearrr just search it up !#sae itoshi #sae itoshi x reader #itoshi sae #itoshi sae x reader #sae itoshi x you #bllk itoshi sae #bllk sae itoshi #blue lock #blue lock sae itoshi #blue lock sae #blue lock fluff #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader

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despairots · 1 day ago

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# PHAINON … angst/happy ending !

phainon x gn!reader | the explanation for this was so corny but i was on cai and i stumbled upon a phainon bot. you like him but phainon likes the trailblazer (caelus in the bot) and he confronts you about it and and and im not gonna lie, i was like ts is a masterpiece hence the reason why im making this

cw: swearing, angsy/happy ending, slightly oblivious reader, male trailblazer, slight mention of a harem but the trailblazer dont fw any of them, jealousy, insecurities, dan heng + reader = found family, miscommunication, honestly it says happy ending but halfway through writing this i was like “nahhh leave it on a cliffhanger.” slight mention of kevin kaslana x reader, spelling mistakes, no i did not proof read this.

ever since you landed on amphoreus with both caelus and dan heng, you’ve realized how little importance you have to most people. caelus was an eye-catcher, a sight for sore eyes, and if you looked off to his companions, you’d realize why he was the only one worth watching.

it’s not like you cared or you were jealous, you just started noticing now. any time someone, needed help with something that could solve what you’re fighting for, they look at caelus. you don’t know if dan heng had noticed, but if he did, you can’t help but get mad at yourself for letting jealousy slip.

this doesn’t only imply to being helpful, it also implies how many people would tear down the sky for him. it’s funny when caelus is completely oblivious to their actions, or even if he was aware, he wasn’t interested. it never bothered you, really. it never hurt either, he was friend so you had no right to be mad at his unknown selfishness.

but the only time it did hurt, was when you realized the man you had fallen in love with…

…was in love with him.

you didn’t wanna believe it at first; how every gaze that was on you went to caelus when he’d brushed past you two, how he’d atleast bring his name up in one conversation between the two of you. before, you’d just laugh it off, thinking he was just talking nice so you wouldn’t tell caelus that phainon was shit-talking him.

it started off as straying farther from him, next, you’d stop responding with jokes and started answering with things that were necessary. after that, you stopped meeting his gaze, ignoring how much it hurt to distance yourself from him. you thought that maybe he’d forget about the connection between you two, that he’ll leave you alone.

but the one thing you know about phainon was that he was undoubtedly stubborn.

the both of you were hidden behind views, phainon leaning on a wall of okhema with a crossed arms and narrowed eyes that made you wonder if that was actually him infront of you. you knew this day would come, where you’d eventually have to face him. you’ve counted many times where you dodged a bullet by talking to him.

“you’ve been avoiding me.” phainon points out, getting to the point immediately. you tugged bits of your lips inside your mouth, chewing on the flesh, “is it… because of caelus?” you seem stiffen on the mention, betraying your own body.

phainon sighed, uncrossing his arms with a concerned look, “i’m sorry, i never meant to you hurt.” you shrugged, keeping yourself as calm as possible, “it’s fine, really.” turning to look at him, you felt your resolve crumble, “caelus is my friend, so are you. if it brings you both happiness, who am i to judge?” you scratched the back of your neck, turning your gaze somewhere else.

phainon’s frown deepened, for all the shorten times his known you, he hates it when you distance yourself from him.

you sighed, facing him this time with a steady look, “but now’s not the time to worry about feelings, let alone mine. we can worry about our personal matters later.” maybe if you shoved this conversation aside, it’ll never happen again. you don’t want it to happen again—matter of fact, you wished phainon wasn’t perceptive at all.

something in you made your soul feel more attached to him, something that you can’t shake off ever since you laid your eyes on him. were you, perhaps, destined to meet him? if so, were you destined to even have your feelings reciprocated? no time for trivial things anyway. you have more important things to deal with, like the flame reaver.

phainon couldn’t help but sigh, holding a hand against his forehead, “why are you saying that as if you mean nothing at all?” you gapped a bit, blinking in absolute disbelief. phainon’s eyes had you wavering a bit, the hurt lingering in his eyes that made you feel guilty for even distancing yourself.

it was just silence between the two of you, pain and regret lingering in the air. was he twisting your words just a bit? was he not understanding that the longer you stay near him, the faster your walls come down?

you sighed and broke the silence, covering your eyes in tiredness, “i’m not going to argue with you about this, phainon. just let this go, please.” you pleaded this time, keeping your posture straight despite the heaviness in your heart.

you saw the way his jaw tightened slightly, bothered by the attempts of you trying to brush this situation aside. phainon didn’t wanna believe that you regarded your feelings so little, not after you wear your heart on your sleeve. he hated seeing you so sadden, by him especially. phainon never meant to you hurt you, if you looked closer, listened harder—you’d hear his heart beats beating fo—

“i can’t let this go, do you really think i can? this isn’t some fleeting scab that’ll disappear as time passes, wounds don’t heal when you keep picking at them.” way too woe you with words, phainon… the vulnerability was there, laid flat out to you, expecting that you’ll do the same.

just for you to stand there with your guard up, “must you be so stubborn, phainon? you have my blessing with you and caelus, and somehow, that’s not enough?” you scoffed, acting snarky was a way to push him away right? you hated this conversation, you hated being confronted like this, you hated knowing that he was gonna hate you sooner or later.

“i’ll manage, phainon. i can get over it.” you turned on your heels to leave, not even gathering up the courage to look him in the eyes to say it.

phainon’s hand latched out, grabbing your wrist with such gentleness that made you grit your teeth, “get over it? you say that as if love is such an inconvenience for you?” his voice cracked, phainon’s next words quieter, “do i really mean so little to you?” you looked down at the hand holding you back, the softness of his voice making you heave a heavy breath.

“no, you don’t.” staring at the hand that held you hostage, you couldn’t help but feel bothered, “but it’s not me you want, and that’s fine. i’ve accepted it, why can’t you?” you snapped, snatching your hand back and giving him a narrowed look before quickly making your escape.

if maybe you stayed a little longer, you could see the yearning in his eyes…

it seemed so easy for you let things go, and the question is why? it’s simple; caelus was just far more charming than you were, more eye-catching. you were fine with it… well, as fine as a person be.

you wandered around okhema before calling it a night. heading back to the temporary home with caelus and dan heng. when you entered, caelus was snoring with drool in the corners of his mouth, dan heng looking up from his book and spotting the aching look on your face.

he sighed, the both of you on the balcony as caelus’s snores brought no comfort to your already irritated state. back hunched over the railing, hands covering your face, and a slight shake in your shoulders. dan heng was… unnerved to see you in such a state, you were always confident and ready for anything, so seeing you so depressed made him worried.

you were someone he could call a family, everyone on the express was, but you meant something more to him. seeing you in such distress made him curse lightly at the nameless hero, “just tell caelus.” you glared at dan heng through the cracks of your fingers.

“yeah? about what? ‘hey, caelus! did you know that the guy i have a crush on likes you more?’ how funny for you to even suggest that.” you groaned, staring at the abyss in front of you with a pointed look, “fuck… i’m so stupid, dan heng. why’d i think i had chance?” you buried your face back into your hands, voice cracking midway through your confession.

dan heng sighed deeply, folding his arms over the railing, “you’re not stupid. i didn’t say tell caelus, so he could fix it. i said it so you wouldn’t have to keep pretending you’re not jealous, that you feel jealousy weaving itself into your bones.” he explained, the silence from you speaking many things already.

“running away from him doesn’t solve anything, it makes everything harder to bare.” you hated how right he sounded right now, how wise he needed to be sometimes. “shut up..” you turned over your shoulder to see the sleeping caelus, completely oblivious to the tremor he causes. he was your friend, and you’re jealous of him… you’re so immature.

why’d it seem like you fighting over a toy that wasn’t yours in the first place?

staring down at the railing, you’ve thought about millions of possibilities where you never came down here, “i should’ve stayed on the express. i could’ve saved me the trouble, and…” you gestured to yourself, technically speaking about the mess inside you, “whatever this is.”

“caring hurts, stop blaming yourself for stuff that was out of your control.” he flicked your forehead, the only sign of affection he seems to know whenever it was the two of you. dan heng ignored the teary-eyed glare, “it just hurts… it hurts knowing the one i actually want, wants caelus.” you admitted, choking back on tears before fixing yourself and turned to dan heng.

“don’t tell anyone please, this stays between us.” he nodded, watching you retreat back inside and throwing your goat over caelus’s head to stop him from snoring before he wrestled the coat off in sleepy confusion; huh? what’s happening? are we getting ambushed? he managed to let out before returning back to his annoying snores.

the next morning, you woke up with caelus watching you sleep. backing up when you shot up, clenching your shirt where your heart was, “shit, caelus! why’d you just watch me sleep?” your heart beat seemed to calm down, caelus bursting out in laughter.

“what? it’s the first time you’ve seemed so peaceful. normally, you’re all…” he laid on your lap, pulling an exaggerated scowl that made you swat him away. dan heng could notice the way your hands tightened onto your blanket as you continued to listen to caelus’s dumb ramble. his eyes flicked up to your face, seeing the red in your eyes and how puffy it was.

maybe you should’ve stayed on the express…

#⑴ kaz’s written works!#angst #hsr #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #phainon x reader #phainon x male reader #phainon #kevin kaslana x reader #kevin kaslana

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bellasweetwriting · 16 hours ago

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tell superman I have his girl { clark kent x f.reader }

masterlist

plot: trying to get superman’s attention, batman kidnaps clark kent’s girlfriend… well, his ex-girlfriend

warnings: older clark kent , angst , reader and clark fight , mentions of kidnapping , swearing , yelling , bittersweet ending , batman cameo

a/n: ok, this came to me in a dream. i always write for tom welling’s clark kent, but this can also work for david or henry, or any superman you want to if you want to! also, im a superman girly, so my knowledge of batman is the bare minimum excuse me. i just imagined getting involved in between a batman and superman confrontation and my fingers just started typing. also, first time for me writing for superman more than clark kent, since im a smallville writer, so, hope you like it!!

word count: idk guys this is really long beware

Smallville was always quiet this time of the year. The streets were cold, using a scarf was a must, and the snow was creeping inside your boots, damping your socks. You needed to change them. You didn’t have any money to change them.

You locked the flower shop’s door before pulling down the gray roll up metal cover that kept the store safe. Your ears were cold under the wool of your hat, as you struggled with the keys due to your heavy packed mittens that you regretted wearing, yet were thankful for the warmth they provided.

You began walking, the cold night and breeze making your cheeks and the tip of your noise get tinted a warm rose tone as the blood flushed through you. You turned, the newspaper stand in the middle of the sidewalk catching you off guard. Of course, your luck seemed to never run out, as the name Clark Kent graced the front page of the daily planet.

Superman saves the day

Of course he did, you whispered to yourself, walking past the stand and towards the coffee shop across the street, dreaming of a hot cocoa to calm the extreme coldness. You were looking for something sweet, something with enough marshmallows to make you forget your ex-boyfriend of six years was making headlines, while you were making flower arraignments for the same three women every tuesday night. And that would be for the rest of your life.

Do not think badly of yourself nor your work. You loved what you did. It was your mom’s shop, the one you promised you would keep alive until you were no longer alive, the one that gave you your first summer job, your first adult experience. The place where you got your first kiss, your first dance, your first heartbreak.

You walked inside the coffee shop, the breeze staying outside while you stepped in, the scarf that circled your neck getting untangled by your hands as you began feeling the warmth of central heating.

You walked towards the counter, ignoring the calls of the men sitting on the tables, who called your name like cats chase mouse’s, or, of course, men chase beautiful women. They called you as if they were betting on horses, or were yelling at each other in Wall Street over stock values. You ignored them, your eyes on the blackboard where hot cocoa, with big chalk letter could be read.

��Please,” you asked the lady behind the register with a smile. “A hot cocoa to go, with as many marshmallows as you are allowed to put in a cup.”

Katie, someone that had become your pal ever since you were managing the store, smiled at you as she received your cash, and put your name on the coffee cup to go.

You stepped to the side, and by instinct, you didn’t know why, you turned your eyes to the door.

There, behind the men that were staring at you, or the ones that dared to call your name in order to get your attention, standing in front of the door was Clark Kent, with his mother and father, walking inside the coffee shop as they laughed together.

You definitely needed a place to hide.

But he called your name in surprise, and your name sounded so different when it came from his lips. The way his voice echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls, hitting you like a truck speeding through the hallway, crushing you down. Yet you were unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to think straight. And you had to stand there and pretend.

Pretend that seeing him, his blue eyes locked on you, on your body, looking at you up and down, hiding behind the lenses of those big squared glasses, wasn’t killing you. You felt weak. Your knees felt weak. You held on to the counter behind you, your lips parted, air leaving your mouth, and you forgot how to breathe.

How? He was supposed to be gone. You knew he would never truly leave Smallville, not with his parents still around. Because if they weren’t there, seeing Clark again would be impossible. You had to have left, but you didn’t, you stayed, forced to swallow down the memories of the man you were supposed to marry.

He unlocked his arm from his mother’s approaching you with a tiny smile. He was being polite. Clark Kent was always polite, well-mannered, never raised his voice, never took anyone for granted, always kind, always generous, always so… human. How much money would you pay for him to just have one flaw?

“Clark,” you said, giving him a polite smile. You thought if you looked straight into his eyes you would pass out. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Came to visit my parents,” he let you know. “I didn’t know you still live here. I thought you had plans to leave Smallville.”

“Guess I just got stuck here,” you whispered, knowing damn well the reason you were stuck wasn’t because you wanted to be, it was because maybe you were tricking your mind into thinking that if you stayed… it was because you were waiting for him.

Maybe it was the reason why you didn’t pay attention to the guys calling your name, asking you out, telling you how beautiful you are. You just wanted to hear it from him. For him to be the only one to ever say your name. To ever feel your lips. You were scared that once someone else got through your shield, they would leave… just like Clark did.

You looked down, hoping he wouldn’t notice that you were definitely going to start crying.

“I’m managing my mom’s flower shop,” you said, a soft smile growing on your face. “How’s the Daily Planet? I see your name gets the front page from time to time.”

“Only when I interview Superman,” he mumbled to himself.

You snickered. “You always liked talking to yourself.”

That gained you a look from him, with a tiny smirk. He didn’t have to tell you, because you already knew. The minute superman appeared to save the world, you knew that was him.

For you to not recognize Clark Kent, more than a costume was needed.

Your phone buzzed, interrupting the moment and the tension built between the two of you, a clear text read on the screen.

LL: Outside.

Your face turned red, putting the phone back in your pocket before Clark saw it.

“Everything okay?” He asked you, trying his best to be polite, yet curiosity growing up on him.

“Yeah, I can take care of myself now, Clark. That’s what I’ve been doing for a while,” you whispered the last part before grabbing your purse, and putting back on your mittens. “It was good to see you again,” you lied. It was incredible as it was overwhelming to see him again.

You liked the way he had aged over the four years you’ve been apart. He didn’t look fifteen anymore, he looked older, wiser, stronger. He looked more mature, yet still with that same boyish grin you always adored. You smiled, grabbing your hot cup of cocoa to go.

“I’ll see you around, Clark,” you finally said, walking towards the door. You waved goodbye to Martha and Jonathan before you kept walking, a guy that just entered holding open the door for you.

When you walked outside and saw the Porsche, you freaked. This was getting too regular for your liking, as now Lex Luthor tended to pick you up at the most random times, and you had no other option but to follow.

He stepped outside of the car and surrounded it, opening the door of the sports car to you. You took two steps before you heard your name being called.

“You forgot your—” Clark Kent stopped himself once he saw you and Lex Luthor, side by side, as you were about to step inside his car. “Scarf,” he finished saying, holding on to that pink fabric like he was holding himself not to freak out in that moment. “Lex,” he called your companion, which made the man smile.

“Clark,” Lex replied, approaching his long time friend, the one he never saw anymore, the one that he grew apart from, with a cocky smile. “Long time no see. Thought Smallville had become too… small for you.” Lex smirked, grabbing your scarf from Clark’s hand. “Maybe just the people, then.”

“What’s going on?” Clark asked as Lex walked in your direction, placing the scarf around your neck. It made you flinch, as you hoped he would use it to strangle you or something worse.

“I’m just giving her a ride home,” Lex replied, innocently. “Like I always do.” He then looked at you, so serious you thought he would freeze you with his eyes. “Get in.”

You nodded, turning to look at Clark. “Thanks for the scarf. I’ll see you around,” you said, getting inside the car, and Lex closing the door behind you.

It didn’t take long before Lex got in as well, your eyes turning to see Clark standing there, at the door, still baffled by the situation.

“I hope Clark being back doesn’t alter the terms of our agreement,” Lex said, you turning to look at him and nodding. “Good.”

And with that, he started the car and drove away.

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

The very next day, Clark came over to the flower shop, not even a hello from him was required, as you both knew what his visit was about.

“What are you doing fooling around with Lex Luthor?”

“We’re definitely not fooling around!” You defended yourself, actually offended by his insinuation. “That’s not what is happening?”

“Then you getting inside his three hundred thousand dollar car means you guys are just friends?” He asked, which made you scoff. “He’s bad news, baby.”

“Don’t call me baby,” you said, your eyes sharp, your face as serious as ever, lifting your finger at him, practically reprehending him. “You lost that right when you broke up with me so you could move to Metropolis and fly around in a cape and tights.”

“I’m saving people!”

“And what about me!?” You yelled, surrounding the counter so you could approach him. “You left me here, Clark! You asked me to wait, to understand your destiny, to respect your calling, and you left me here alongside your past. Because what? I didn’t belong in your future? I wasn’t part of Superman’s life? Of course. Why would the girl next door be worthy of such a god?” Clark looked away, flinching at the word. “The worst part of it all, Clark? You left me here thinking if I waited, I would get a ring.”

He turned to look at you. “I never promised you that.”

“No, you just hoped I would still be here once you finish being a superhero, once you fell from the pedestal you created. You cherish everyone in your life, yet you take me for granted. And maybe that’s what I thought of myself for a while after you left. That I was nothing more than a girl that peaked in high school. A pretty girl all the guys want to look at from afar, yet scares them away once they get near enough to see my true self.” You took a step back. “Isn’t that what happened to you? I didn’t live up to your expectations, didn’t live up to the greatness that awaited you, so you just bolted?”

“I didn’t want to put you in any danger,” he said. “I live a dangerous life. If anything happened to you…”

“Worse than what you did to me? I fell in love with you, Clark… Nothing could be as dangerous, and as heartbreaking, and as bad as that.” You walked behind the counter again, forcing yourself to look anywhere but him. “I sold the store to Lex Luthor.”

“You did what?”

“I was in big debt with my mom’s hospital bills, I had to sell. Lex promised that if I sold it to him, he would let me manage it. I just didn’t know it came with fine print.”

“So now you’re his trophy? Is that it? He can parade you around? Use you any way he wants?”

“It’s not like that…”

“That’s what it looked like yesterday when he was bossing you around,” he said, making you close your eyes. “Nobody should treat you that way.”

“How is it any different from what I’m used to?” You snapped back, looking at his eyes. “How is it any different from a guy who leaves and comes into your life whenever he pleases, just assuming you will stay waiting for him with open arms? Yes, maybe Lex just wanted me as a trophy. He’s always have, you know that, it’s not news. But why do I feel like I just traded cases instead? Or you’re gonna tell me I wasn’t a trophy to you as well? That dating me wasn’t your biggest childhood wish? That having what other guys wanted wasn’t great for you?”

“How can you even believe that what I felt for you wasn’t real?” He asked, baffled. “How can you say my love for you wasn’t more than some macho competition? I loved you with all my heart, with all my soul. You were the girl of my dreams, of my days, of my nights. I’m hurt you can even think any less than that. Is that what our love means to you now?”

“Yes,” you admitted, even if it hurt. “Clark, after you left, I blamed myself for so long. I thought I wasn’t good enough for you, that you did right to leave. That your destiny was much more than being by my side. That you deserve someone worthy of what you are. And then, I realized… than if leaving was so easy for you… then maybe what meant the world to me… was just another step in your way that you had to take.”

“How can you believe that? If anything, I’m not worthy of you.”

“That’s the thing. Relationships aren’t supposed to make you believe if you are worthy of them. You’re supposed to be at ease, you’re supposed to feel like the world makes sense. And that’s what happened between us. You and I, for me, for someone whose life is as simple as it could be, just made sense. But you? Life had other plans for you. Love isn’t the priority.” He shook his hand. “It’s okay… I don’t blame myself. So don’t blame yourself either. I just have to find someone who I can mean to them what you meant to me. Their future.”

“And that’s Lex?” He asked. “He’s bad. He has something planned, I can bet on it. He will never let you go off this deal. He’s going to keep you in his leash forever. I don’t want that for you.”

“What you want for me stop mattering when you took your car and drove away to Metropolis four years ago,” you said. “Goodbye, Clark.”

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A gala in Metropolis was the last place you wanted to be. The dress Lex had picked out for you was a daisy yellow toned made of silk that reached your feet. It hugged your frame, you felt as if you were worth a million bucks. Just what Lex was looking for. A trophy for him to brag.

And he did, of course. The way the men and women stared at you as you walked in side by side with Lex Luthor was exactly what he wanted. A beautiful woman by his side, making the men jealous of him, and the women in love with him. That’s what he wanted from you, a boost in his public image. It was more efficient than having a model by his side. Your beauty wasn’t plastic, wasn’t made, it was natural, it was enhanced by your kindness, your goodness, your gold soul. Your innocence mixed with your secretiveness, what made you priceless.

The perfect girl next door the guys would call you in school. Whatever it meant. You were supposed to take it as a compliment. They were calling you beautiful, at least that’s what they told you they meant by it.

That’s when you saw him.

You’d never seen Clark Kent in a tuxedo before, and it was a sight for sore eyes. Your knees weakened as you saw him, standing there, all big, and tall, and handsome. You guys stared at one another, your soft smile growing involuntarily as you wished you would keep it away, but being unable to.

Clark Kent was your own personal kryptonite. Your weakness.

The love of your life was standing there, looking at you, making you remember the way he used to hold you in those arms, kiss you with those lips, look at you with those eyes. And the worst part? He meant everything to you, still. And you knew you would just be waiting for something that would never happened, but God how badly you wanted it to.

That’s when it happened.

The glass ceiling came crushing down, everyone taking cover. You felt Lex’s arms covering your head as you did the same with your hands, looking at the man that had descended from the sky.

You stood up, Lex pushing you backwards as you looked at the dark suited man that stood in the middle of the ballroom, his eyes covered by a black mask, his entire body inside a black suit that fitted him rightly so, with the great logo embedded on his chest.

“Good evening, people of Metropolis,” Batman said to everyone, your heartbeat raising. “I need to have a private chat with your friendly Superman.”

Your eyes looked at Clark, who was standing next to the big window of the ballroom, staring at Batman in confusion. What was going on?

“So, since clearly he’s not here, I just want to guys to deliver a message to him so he can meet me,” Batman said with his deep voice, his head turning in your direction. “Tell Superman I have his girl.”

From the pistol in his hand a rope emerged, circling your waist and arms tight enough that made you unable to move. Alex yelled your name as Batman pulled the rope, making you fly in his direction.

You yelled once your back hit his chest, his arm holding you quickly by hovering your waist, and pushing you closer to him. You look around the ballroom before your eyes met Clark’s, who stared at the events in disbelief.

“Clark,” you whispered so low, you knew he was the only one able to hear it. He nodded in your direction, noticing the shaking and fear in your voice. He could hear your heartbeat going so fast he thought it would pump right out of your chest.

That’s when Batman pointed towards the sky, lifting you both up and away.

Landing on a rooftop face first was definitely not ideal. The perfect bun you had placed your hair in was long gone, the rope finally off your arms and body, letting you free, yet still, on the top of the Daily Planet right in the heart of the city.

You stood up, your long hair a complete mess, blinking fast as you turned to look at Batman, that, with his arms crossed, was looking at the city’s skyline, as he waited.

“You have the wrong girl,” you finally said, pushing the hair off your face. Batman turned to look at you. “I’m not Superman’s girl. I haven’t been in a long time.”

“I saw you arguing with Clark yesterday. Seemed more like a lover’s quarrel.”

You frowned. “You know Clark is Superman?”

“Of course I do. It’s a code between superheroes. You don’t keep secrets identities between friends,” Batman answered, practically mocking you. “I just want to talk to him.”

“So you kidnapped me?” You asked, offended and altered. “Why didn’t you just talk to him? Why was the kidnapping part necessary?”

“He has something of mine. Figured I’d steal something of his,” he said, looking away. “He should be here by now. Where is—”

That’s when Superman flew right onto the rooftop, grabbing Batman by the fabric of his suit and pushing him to the brick wall, pining him there with such rage in his eyes, you blinked several times in order to believe what you were seeing.

“What game do you think we’re playing, Batman?” Superman asked. “What I took was for the greater good.”

“And what I took was to piss you off for taking what you took,” Batman said, breathless, as Superman let go off him, the guy falling to the floor. “Thanks for holding back on the strength.”

Superman turned in your direction, flying your way in a hurry. He placed his hands softly on your arms, his face warming, and you could see the Clark you love in his eyes.

“Are you okay?” He asked, softly. “I’m so sorry this happened. I never thought… I kept my distance to prevent this sort of things.”

“You did a terrible job,” Batman interrupted, making you both turn to look at him. “I found her in like a day.” Superman grunted. “We need to talk, Suppy.”

Superman turned in your direction. “Go,” he demanded. And you did. You look back at Batman then back at him, granting him a soft smile before you walked out of the rooftop, leaving the two superheroes to deal with whatever they needed to deal.

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

The flower shop seemed quieter that morning. Your eyes wandered, looking at the petals of the recently arrived roses that you were placing in a bouquet a lady had requested. You hands moved softly through the fabric, treating each flower with extreme delicacy.

“How’s your shoulder?” You freaked, jumping as you looked up to see Clark standing there, inside the shop, in front of the door. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You nodded. “Uhm… my shoulder’s fine. Nothing some cream and some ice couldn’t fix.” You stepped outside the counter, approaching him with your hands inside your back pockets. “Did you settle things with Batman?”

“He sends his deep apologies,” Clark said and you nodded. “And he knew you wouldn’t buy that… so I made him do something else.”

Clark handed you an envelope, which you opened instantly, looking at the piece of paper inside.

“It’s the certificate of ownership of the shop… at my name.” You looked up. “He bought me my shop?” Clark nodded. “You made him buy me my store? How did Lex agreed to this?”

“Batman can be very persuasive. I figure his life is more valuable to Lex than some stupid rivalry against me,” Clark said, shrugging. “Superman made have pushed a finger or two as well.”

“You talk about yourself in third person? Is that what you do in your interviews with Superman?”

Clark scoffed, giving you a smile. “I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to be somebody else’s trophy. I want you to be you. Okay?”

You nodded. “Thank you, Clark. This means… so much to me.”

“I hope that… this helps you change your opinion about me. About us.” You looked away. “You were more than a step in the way. You mean more to me… than whatever destiny I have planned for me.” He called your name, softly, making you look at him. “You are my world. Please, believe what you want… but do me a favor, and know that to be true.”

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zeka-maki · 2 days ago

Text

ʚɞ Yes, you're my lover, there is no other ʚɞ

Pairing: Mydei x Reader

Summary: You find yourself in a rather difficult position. Your husband, Mydei in front of a child who looks scared. The innocent child was mesmerised by your beauty and thought to propose to you but it seems they have a harder obstacle to face, which being your husband.

Tags: Fluff

A/N: erm hey guys im back w ass writing, its 6am and im abt to pass out. My hc is mydei becomes loser once hes fallen for you but hides it better than phainon. Anyways, enjoy this ♡

"Mydeimos, I don't think you should—" your words are cut off by your husband, who has a stern expression on his face, which you can't tell whether it's his neutral face or he's extra serious now. The child in front of you stuttered, unable to form words, fingers tightening around the flowers in their hands. What a terrible situation you've found yourself in.

It all started when you and Mydei decided to walk around the Marmoreal Market. A group of children were playing by a stall but their giggles came to a halt when you two walked past them. Four of them circled one, whispering and plotting something.

Unfortunately, the child who was being circled by the others had said something a little too loud. Perhaps not for the passers-by but for Mydei. "They're so pretty, I'm going to marry them, just you watch." Mydei froze when he heard those words. For a moment, he was prepared, staring down at his gauntlet but when he realised it was only a child, his demeanor shifted.

Now you've found yourself in this mess. Returning to your husband after visiting a stall that had caught your interest, you find him talking to a child... Except the child looks afraid, hands clutching little flowers that they had plan on giving to you. The poor child was unaware that you had a husband, more importantly, your husband being the prince of Castrum Kremnos.

From what Mydei told you, the child has something to tell. He keeps looking at them with a stern expression on his face, which automatically makes the child afraid.

"Go, tell them what you have to say." he commands and the child almost bursts into tears. Afraid but courageous, the child steps forward and holds up the flowers to you. With a wobbly voice, they speak, "I think you're really pretty... And— and I wanted to give this to you... I don't have anything else to give..." that crushes and warms your heart at the same time. You kneel down in front of the child, taking the flowers and offering the little one a hug.

You swear you've never seen someone so happy before. The child cries out of joy, you can hear their friends celebrating from a distance. When you pull away from the hug, they're practically jumping out of joy. They make a promise that they'll come back to marry you and hurry off to their friends, almost forgetting that your husband is still watching.

The smile on your face doesn't dissappear as you stand up and look at Mydei. He averts your gaze, suddenly finding the stall of books more interesting. "What, I merely enhanced the courage they lacked." he huffs out, you can see him practically pouting.

"Was that really necessary?" You question, raising a brow. The way Mydei scared the kid wasn't a first and it seems like it won't be the last.

At that, Mydei smiles, only a little and finally looks at you. "If they want to marry you, they better have the traits to protect you, bravery is one of them." he replies smugly. You stare at him puzzled, not knowing whether to feel flattered or not.

Mydei knows that will never have the fortune of sweeping you off your feet like he did. Only he knows how many things he had to go through just to marry you. And he's proud of it, really. As the the two of you continue your trip, the prince of Kremnos praises himself over and over again in his mind. To know that his endless devotion and years of pining has finally paid off.

#❀࿐ the bride writes #hsr mydei #mydei fluff #mydei x you #mydei x reader #hsr fluff

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fiendsgf · 16 hours ago

Text

Soulbound

VIII. High Tide

sylus x reader, rafayel x reader

Summary: A week passes behind drawn curtains, with only silence for company. When the world finally stirs again, it arrives with rain, a dress tied in crimson ribbon, and a face you didn’t expect to see again. Shadows flicker behind velvet lights. A storm brews, inside and out. And when the power goes out, so does the illusion of truth.

content: non!mc reader, angst if you squint, isekai, love triangle(?), shady raf

masterlist

You spent the week inside your room.

Not because anyone told you to. There was no mission to complete, no chain dragging you down – and yet, you stayed.

Blankets tangled. Curtains drawn. The lights dimmed until the days bled together. The bed grew warm from how long you lay there, your pillow cold only on one side. Sometimes you fell asleep without meaning to. Other times you stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, hollow and weightless.

It was a strange thing – this ache to vanish.

To press pause on the world and sink beneath it.

You thought back to all the nights you’d felt this way before – back home. How often you’d used the game to escape the dull weight of loneliness. The hours you’d poured into it just to feel comforted by something safe and far away. Characters who said the right thing. Music that softened your chest. Love that never asked for more than your attention.

You let out a brittle laugh.

How did it all get so complicated?

How could the very thing that once soothed you leave you in such ruin?

And the worst part – the part that kept circling like a wound you wouldn’t stop picking – was that you weren’t even sure you wanted to go back.

How were you supposed to return to that world and pretend this one hadn’t changed you?

How could you ever open the game again and pretend you hadn’t pressed your hand over Sylus’s wound – felt the warmth of his blood under your palm, his breath catching as he tried to shield you from the pain?

How could you forget the way Rafayel looked at you beneath the moonlight – like your name was the only one he remembered, like he would’ve burned the world down just to hear you say his again?

How could you sit on your bed back home, phone in hand, and tell yourself it didn’t mean anything?

You couldn’t.

Not anymore.

But you didn’t want to stay here either.

You weren’t from this world. You didn’t belong to it. No matter how tightly it tried to pull you in.

You were stuck between two lives – one you no longer fit inside, and one you were never meant to claim.

And for the first time, you weren’t sure where you belonged at all.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

No one pried.

Kieran came by twice – dropping off meals you never finished, cracking a quiet joke through the door the first time, falling silent the second.

Luke didn’t speak at all. Just left a folded blanket on the edge of your bed one morning, tucked in neatly with a small packet of your favorite tea.

Sylus knocked once on the third day. Said your name – just once – like maybe that was enough. It almost was. You thought about answering. But the words got stuck in your throat, too soft to be heard.

So the days passed. Quiet and shapeless.

Until the ping of your phone broke through the stillness on the seventh day.

cutie

i’m sorry. im so sorry i shouldn’t have let it get that far can i explain? not to ask for anything, just so you know i didn’t mean to hurt you. it wasn’t what you think.

You stared at the messages for a long time. The screen lit up your face, pale and cold.

You didn’t respond.

Instead, you rose slowly, pulling on a hoodie that still smelled like sand and salt and oil paint, and made your way out of the room for the first time in days.

The hallway lights felt too bright. You blinked against them, bare feet brushing the cold tile. It wasn’t until you reached the kitchen that you heard the soft hum of someone else already there.

Sylus.

He stood by the counter, back to you, hands braced on either side of a ceramic mug. His hair was tousled – still drying from a shower, it looked like – and there was a faint crease between his brows.

He heard your footsteps before you spoke.

“Hey,” he said, turning gently. Not surprised. Not startled. Just relieved.

“Hey,” you murmured.

His eyes skimmed your face, then lowered. He set the mug down slowly. “You’ve been… in your room a while.”

You gave a small nod. “I know.”

He didn’t press. Just moved a little closer, voice softening. “I’ve been giving you space. We all have, I know you… have a lot on your mind. But–”

“I know,” you repeated, arms crossed loosely over your chest.

A long pause.

Then, quietly:

“I want to take you somewhere tomorrow.”

You glanced up.

He met your eyes, something careful and patient in his. “Just us. It’s not business. I just think it might help. Clear your head.”

You hesitated. Swallowed.

“I don’t know if I’m really up for–”

“You don’t have to talk,” he said. “You don’t even have to enjoy it. Just come with me. Let me try.”

That quiet again. But it wasn’t heavy this time.

“…Okay,” you said.

His mouth twitched – almost a smile – and he nodded once, stepping back.

“I’ll come by around noon.”

You gave another small nod, turning toward the sink, reaching for a glass.

Neither of you said anything else.

But as he left the room, you realized:

A small part of you didn’t feel like disappearing anymore.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You were still brushing the sleep from your eyes when you heard the knock.

Three slow taps – soft, but distinct.

You opened the door hesitantly, and there he was. Sylus. Dressed down, black slacks and a dark button-up open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was slicked back just enough to look intentional. In his hands: a box. Matte black, ribboned in crimson.

You blinked. “What’s this?”

He held it out to you. “A gift.”

You took it slowly, glancing up at him. “Why?”

“For that thing I mentioned yesterday,” he said. “Get dressed. I’m taking you to a fashion show.”

You stared.

A beat passed.

“You’re kidding.”

He almost smiled. “You’ve been locked up for a week. I figured something extravagant might tempt you.”

Your fingers worked the ribbon free, lifting the lid – and your breath caught.

Inside was a dress unlike anything you’d ever worn. Silken and weightless, in a deep burgundy that shimmered like starlight when you tilted it against the light. Alongside it, nestled in a velvet compartment: earrings of silver and diamonds, delicate and fluid like drops of water frozen mid-fall.

You looked up again, voice softer now. “I’ve never been to a fashion show before.”

“First time for everything.”

A small smile flickered at the corners of your mouth. You let your fingers linger on the fabric, then finally looked up and murmured:

“…Thanks, Sylus.”

His gaze warmed, just slightly. “I’ll wait downstairs. We'll leave in the evening.”

You nodded, retreating into your room. As the door clicked shut behind you, you held the dress up to the light again – and for the first time in days, something inside you sparked. Not joy, exactly. But curiosity. Maybe even anticipation.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The car slid to a stop in front of the venue just as thunder cracked overhead.

Rain sheeted down, heavy and sudden, drumming against the windshield in sharp staccato bursts. Through the fogged glass, the soft glow of the event hall shimmered like a mirage – all marble and glass and chrome, a clean-cut elegance dulled slightly by the haze of the storm.

Sylus leaned forward and gave the driver a nod before placing his coat around your shoulders. “Stay close.”

He popped the door and stepped out first, umbrella snapping open with a practiced flick. When he came around to your side, he was already half-soaked, collar damp and dark, hair dripping from the rain.

You laughed despite yourself as he offered you his hand. “You’re going to be drenched by the time we get inside.”

“Then let’s make it quick.” He smirked. “Come on.”

You took his hand and let him guide you out. The umbrella was barely wide enough for the both of you – your arm curled around his, pressed close as the two of you half-jogged through the puddled pavement and up the stairs. The doormen ushered you in fast, and the door shut behind you with a hiss, sealing off the storm like a held breath.

Inside, warmth and color bloomed.

Crystal chandeliers glittered above a sprawling gallery bathed in violet lights. Rows of seats flanked the catwalk, which gleamed like glass down the center of the room. Guests milled around, high fashion dripping from every sleeve, champagne glasses catching the low light like prisms.

You slipped off his coat and smoothed your dress, heart fluttering.

“This is… wow,” you murmured.

Sylus leaned toward you slightly. “Not bad for a last-minute invitation.”

“You know people?”

He gave you a sidelong glance. “I am people.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing. Still locked into his arm, you let him guide you to your seats – front row, near center.

You sat down beside him, still adjusting the hem of your dress even though it was perfectly fine. The lights overhead dimmed a touch, casting everything in cooler tones – purples, silvers, shadows. The kind of atmosphere that made your skin buzz.

Music began to drift in – low and sleek, the sound of velvet being dragged over glass. The room was filling fast, the buzz of conversation rising and falling in waves.

Sylus leaned in slightly, voice warm near your ear. “This part always drags. The fashion is great, but the crowd pretends it’s more dramatic than it is.”

“Are you saying rich people are bad actors?”

“Half of them are here for a photo. The other half are hoping they get seated next to someone interesting.”

“And which are we?”

He glanced at you, lips twitching. “The people who’ll make the front page either way.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re with me.”

You gave him a light shove, laughing, but your cheeks were warm.

You turned slightly to look out over the rest of the crowd – scanning rows, taking in the colors and couture, the shimmer of silver against skin, the flicker of phone cameras and whispered commentary.

And that’s when you saw him.

Rafayel.

Sitting across the runway, directly opposite you.

Hair slicked back from the rain. Sharp black suit. No umbrella. No one at his side.

His gaze wasn’t on you – not exactly. It was angled low, distant. Jaw tight. One hand curled on the armrest, white-knuckled.

He looked like a man holding back a tidal wave.

You’ve got to be kidding.

Of course he’d be here.

Your breath caught, but before you could dwell on it, turn to tell Sylus, the lights dimmed. A hush fell. The show began.

Maybe he didn’t see me. Just keep your head down.

Music poured in, ethereal and slow. Models emerged, clothed in gauzy, impossible designs, dreamlike silhouettes and colors that shimmered like oil on water. You should’ve been mesmerized.

But outside, the storm had grown louder.

Wind howled against the glass. Thunder cracked so loud it swallowed the music whole. Lightning splintered the sky, and then–

Darkness.

A jolt of confusion swept the room. The music stuttered and died. Whispers rose. Emergency lights buzzed to life along the exits, dim and red.

Sylus turned to you, hand already brushing your arm. “Power’s out. We should go.”

“Bathroom first,” you said quickly, standing. “Just give me a minute.”

I need to breathe.

He nodded, scanning the crowd. “Don’t take too long.”

You slipped off toward the back.

“How long do you plan on playing house with her?”

Sylus turned.

Rafayel stood just behind him, half-shadowed by the dim lighting, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He wasn’t smiling.

Sylus blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Rafayel said. His voice was low, cool. “Stay away from her.”

Sylus scoffed. “That’s rich, coming from the man she ran from in tears.”

Rafayel didn’t flinch. “You don’t even know what you’re involved in.”

Sylus squared his shoulders, brows lifting. “Then enlighten me.”

A flicker of emotion passed through Rafayel’s face – something bitter, something old.

“You don’t even recognize her, do you?” he said, voice sharp with restrained fury. “You spent all that time with her. You got to her before I did. And you still don’t see it.”

Sylus’s face shifted. His confidence faltered.

“What are you talking about?”

Rafayel’s eyes glinted.

“Who she truly is.”

Sylus’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

A low breath left Rafayel’s chest – not a laugh, but something like it. Bitten through with pain, bitterness, and reverence.

“My bride.”

Sylus blinked. “What–?”

“The one I forged my covenant with,” Rafayel said, voice barely above a whisper now. “Not some mimic… not a shade meant to keep me quiet. But her.” His gaze was miles deep now, somewhere ancient. “The one I’ve waited lifetimes for.”

Rafayel’s voice dropped low, laced with venom. “If you truly loved her, you would have seen it – before she even got here. But you didn’t. You missed the signs, the truth beneath the surface. You don’t deserve her presence.”

Sylus’s jaw tightened, searching Rafayel’s eyes.

“Don’t you feel it?” Rafayel pressed, stepping closer. “You’re bound to her too, aren’t you? You don’t feel the pull? Don’t see the life in her eyes? You don’t feel the weight of everything you’ve shared?”

Sylus was nearly speechless, the weight of it settling in his chest.

He did feel it.

But he hadn’t let himself believe it.

“Did you… bring her here?” he finally asked, voice barely steady.

Rafayel’s gaze deepened into something darker. “She’s supposed to be here. I brought her to where she belongs.”

Sylus didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Lightning cracked again, illuminating Rafayel’s face in stark relief. For a second – just a second – he looked haunted.

Then:

“Sylus?”

The voice was far-off at first. Faint.

You.

He turned, scanning the thinning crowd.

You were threading your way toward him, eyes searching. “There you are,” you said, relieved. “You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

He turned back.

Rafayel was gone.

Sylus’s jaw tensed, but he forced a smile. “Yeah,” he said, barely audible. “I’m okay.”

You studied him, unconvinced.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said softly. “Come on, sweetie.”

He took your arm, pulled you close, and led you through the crowd, back into the storm.

a/n: RAF GIRLS DONT SHOOT!!!! you see what happened was [gunshot]

anyways im sorry this chapter is short, but im so excited to see the reactions 🤭

🏷️: @paper--angel @leftpoetrymoon @istolepeanuts @rjreins @freeprincesslove @3fg7 @mariahuchiha90 @beaconsxd @poptrim @hon3yydew @pinkpastelbabygirl @rafayelridesfisheatsfish @yannew @peachystea @cms399 @marinenox @cottagedumpling @nightmarewasteland @mitskunicheesecake @katyeongs @shadowypeachsweets @saybeyonce @napforalifetime @bubera974 @moonlight-inthe-sea @xvilluis @potania @demon-master-zero @antonneva @fairestofnrc @orianakira @blessdunrest @vvyeislazzy @probably-hyperfixating @dysphxriaii @nayukiyukihira @an-bwp @asakiyu

#soulbound series #lads #love and deepspace #lads sylus #lnds #lads rafayel #non mc x sylus #sylus #love and deepspace x reader #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #rafayel x you #rafayel x reader #sylus x reader #rafayel love and deepspace

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clarkeydreaming · 1 day ago

Text

summer nights, mid july. | - george clarke.

summery: you hated sports. didn’t care for any of it one bit. it was around the middle of july, the weather was warm & sunny, and your best friend is begging for you to come to a charity football match. that’s when you see him.

warnings: smut. mdni! choking, finger sucking, face slapping, unprotected sex (don’t do this xx) (she’s on contraception), hair pulling, degradation, face fucking, fingering, dom!george, fem!reader, sub!reader.

a/n: first fic, lmk what u think hehe. could possibly make a part 2 if it’s wanted.

───────── ݁˖ ❀ ⋆｡˚ ─────────

19th july. a saturday. 4:50pm, the weather was gorgeous, it had been sunny for a few weeks. which in london, doesn’t happen often. you wanted to go out, to do something. you could almost hear the beer garden calling your name. except, it was your phone ringing. almost by magic, it was your best friend calling, your prayers had been answered. you picked up the call eager to hear what she had planned for you both this evening.

“2 tickets. me & you, you coming?!” she said in an excited tone.

“you know i don’t do sports…” you exhaled.

“oh come on! it’ll be a right laugh, the weather is so nice, we can have a few pints, AND there’ll be gorgeous sweaty men running round a pitch for 90 minutes!” she said convincingly.

you started to warm to the idea, but needed one final push to really seal the deal.

“you buy me a pizza, and im all yours.” you challenged her.

“done!” she accepted.

you finish off the conversation & hang up. you gave yourself an eye roll as this wasn’t what you wanted to do with your saturday evening. then, a text came through:

“match starts at 7:30pm, ive farm fields. look hot 😉”

you then chucked your phone on your bed and stood in front of your wardrobe. you pulled out a baggy pair of jeans, a basic tank & your trusty trainers. shoved a pair of sunglasses on top of your head, lose curls falling all around them & finished off with some perfume & lipgloss.

“ready when you are x”

“omw, daring!😚”

she arrives in an uber, and you reluctantly get in. the time was around 6:20pm, enough time to grab that pizza just before going to the pitch. you placed your order at the counter and both started to walk towards the venue. it was a warm evening & it was not a far walk, especially with your best friend and a pepperoni pizza in hand.

eventually you arrive, slightly before time. roughly around 7:15pm. you found a space to stand & watch, there wasn’t too many people in attendance considering it was for charity, but you didn’t seem to care that much. not when one person in particular caught your eye.

he was stretching & warming up with the rest of the group, but you couldn’t help admiring his muscular build, and his face? you wasn’t sure you’d seen anyone as attractive in your whole life. this made you warm to the idea of being here for the next 2 hours or so.

eventually, the game started and you could not take your eyes off number 6 to save your life. infatuated almost. your best friend, thankfully, didn’t pick up on this. but then it happened, he looked at you a beat too long. you felt your heart drop, or race. or both. he had one of those ridiculously cheeky grins. the type of smirk that would make you forget any morals you thought you had.

the half time whistle blows and your best friend goes to fetch two more beers for you both. you stand in the same spot on your phone to pass the time, when you hear a voice from behind you. “sold you out has she? that’s terrible!”. you turn around & look up through your lashes. it was him. and jesus christ, did he look better up close.

“oh, no.. she’s just gone- to get a couple of beers..!” your words stumbled out. his eye contact was not for breaking, but yours did, down to his lips, but your eyes immediately darted back up to meet his gaze. his eyes twinkled as he caught your slip. “so, what’s a pretty girl like you, doing at a charity football game?” he asks.

you feel your heart flutter, did he just… compliment you? you shook your head slightly, “oh, last minute plans. my friends brother cancelled on her. i was the next in line. what charity are you playing for?” you asked curiously, acting interested.

“it’s for a charity called free kicks, they help out disadvantaged children in deprived areas. it’s close to one of the boys’ hearts. we said we’d help out” he smiled. “so, i suppose i ought to ask, could i have your number?” he said it with confidence, but you could tell he was nervous.

you was opposed at first but, what’s the worst that could happen? you have him your number & asked for his name. “sorry yeah, that’d be a good start” he giggled, “i’m george, george clarke!” you raise a brow, and return the favour of telling him your name. time goes by and your friend returns and the football match resumes for the next 45 minutes.

final whistle blows, 5 - 2 to “george’s” team. the boys were made up that they were able to help charity and secure a win. you and your friend both start to head out, and you thanked your friend for dragging you along. but you needed to try and make up an excuse as to why you won’t be sharing a taxi home.

“oh you go ahead, my aunties calling, i think she needs help at her house. burst pipe or something!” you try and convince her, but somehow, it worked. she went on her way, telling you to text her when you got home & hoped your aunties pipe fixes soon.

you loiter round for a minute, and thinking stupidly, to send george a text.

“fancy grabbing a pint?” you text him, not ready to say goodbye. “be out in 2” he responded. you felt your stomach do a flip. he came out after getting changed and freshening up, and he still looked just as gorgeous.

wearing a hoodie that fit slightly oversized, baggy jorts & trainers. you had to remind yourself to take a breath as you held it without realising. he flashed a smile, and directed you both out of the venue.

finally, you arrive at a pub. a small one, it felt quite intimate and now you was regretting your choice of asking him to come out with you. he didn’t seem to mind, however. he asked what you wanted to drink, and took himself to the bar as you found a seat. it was in a booth, pretty private for someone you’d just met.

he returned with two pints, sat down and the conversation flowed right off the bat. shy giggles from you, stupid jokes from him. time flew by and you looked down at your watch, 11:38pm. you thought about leaving. thought you didn’t want to. you wanted to stay with him.

next thing you know, you was back at his flat with his lips locked to yours and his hands exploring you. your top didn’t leave much to the imagination, to be fair. you welcomed the touches, even moving his hands where you wanted them to be. whether it be on your waist or grabbing one of your tits.

george slammed the door behind him using his foot and you found yourself in the hallway, the kiss broke and you could see george weighing up where abouts he wanted to fuck you in the flat. kitchen? no. balcony? no. the living room chair? yes. he walked you towards it and told you to sit.

you did as you was told and sat down on the chair, looking up at him. his eyes were dark, much darker than before. his lips were parted slightly, one brow raised just a touch, his eyes darting all over your face and body. “fuck, you’re… you’re amazing” he whispered. he knelt down in front of you, and it felt like he was taking in every detail. then, his hands darted to the button and zip on your jeans - “lift for me.” he asked, you raised your hips off the chair, allowing him to pull down your jeans in one swift movement.

this revealed a lacy black thong, the ones that had the cute little baby pink bow perched along the waistband, george snorted slightly at the sight, shaking his head and pushing his tongue into his cheek. he then rolled his head and looked you directly in your eyes, “spread em for me, angel.” his hands found your knees, pushing ever so slightly and letting you open the rest of the way.

his fingers lightly traced up and down the inside of your thighs and along your lower stomach, goosebumps appeared at his feather light touch and your breathing became a little more laboured. the anticipation was killing you. you watched his face, as he watched his hands explore. “keep that breathing steady for me, that’s it.” he said softly, foreshadowing what’s to come.

he then hooked two fingers under your thong and pulled them to the side, exposing you to him. his eyes stayed locked on your pussy, getting wetter off the sight of him alone. he let his fingers run up and down, slightly denying you of that pressure you craved. your hips involuntarily lifted ever so slightly, and you looked up at him but he didn’t react, thankfully.

he used his two fingers to circle your clit with extreme precision, just the right amount of pressure for right now, before using the same two fingers to spread you wide and let spit drip from his lips and directly onto your pussy, he then spread it softly, before slowly entering his fingers into you.

he pushed his fingers all the way in, they were stretching you open and you felt a slight breath get caught in the back of your throat. he curled them inside you ever so slightly before starting to pull them out and push them in. you could feel yourself getting wetter embarrassingly quick, watching him watch you, seeing his forearm muscles working, seeing his biceps tense. you lifted your feet up onto the chair and let your head fall back, letting moans escape your mouth. shy at first, but you could see what your sounds were doing to george, so they fell out with more ease as he went on.

your hands were gripping the arms of the chair as you could feel yourself clenching around him, brows furrowed, breathing exceptionally fast, head now tilted back on the chair, feeling everything he’s giving you.

“there we go, just like that, baby” george said softly, pressing his hand into your lower abdomen to make the feeling more intense. and boy, did it feel intense. you could feel your climax approaching quickly, which george was aware of with the way your body was moving, the way your moans had heightened in pitch and the way your legs was trying to hard to close but he kept them pried open, widely.

he then pulled his fingers out from you suddenly, denying you of your orgasm. he had a wicked smirk on his face, a lot different to the almost caring george that started all of this. something in him changed. his fingers were covered in you, which he then put in his mouth. “fuck, pretty face like that and you taste this good? you’re going to be a problem.” he said, almost breathlessly, before sliding them into your mouth, a mixture of you and him on them, and you began to suck. george bit his lip, his gaze never faltering. “shit… definitely going to be a problem.”

you bit your lip as you saw him stand, you seemed to small in comparison, but you kinda liked it. turned you on a little bit more. george reached down and started to unbutton his jorts. your eyes watched intently, like it was the only thing in the world that mattered. he dropped them to the ground, leaving him in just his boxers. your eyes scanned his whole body, he looked like he was carved by gods. his stomach was toned, his arms muscular, and his shoulders? fuck, his shoulders. you rolled your eyes in disbelief, allowing your eyes to drop to his cock.

you could tell it was hard, beyond hard almost. you lent forward to feel him but he grabbed your wrist, putting it back down beside you. “who said you could touch, desperate little slut.” your jaw dropped, accompanied with a smirk. how you loved being degraded, but you was a little confused how he could tell. “knew you was a brat, the minute i laid my eyes on you” you almost giggled, but you was caught off guard. “wrong, am i?” he scoffed. you shook your head.

george then leaned over you and grabbed you by your jaw, “hm, thought as much.” he said cockily. he dropped his boxers, and his cock sprung out, and jesus, he was big. you felt as if you was looking at it with hearts in your eyes. “knees.” he demanded, looking down at you. you obeyed straight away, and got onto your knees, looking up at him, almost asking for permission to touch him.

“don’t just sit there, suck it.” which, in hindsight, made you feel pathetic. but in the same breath, you fucking loved it. you took him into your hands and spat on the tip, considering you was almost drooling for it, like the fucking slut you were. you then licked him from base to tip, before eventually wrapping your lips around him, taking his whole length in your mouth, feeling it slide down your throat. you gagged, causing tears to prick in your eyes.

“fffuck.” george whispered, trailing his fingers into your hair, gripping slightly. you then began to suck back and forth, your head and hand working in tandem. your only mission was to hear this man moan. and by the looks of it, it wasn’t far off. you looked up at him, his gaze was intense, before sucking tighter around the tip, causing him to roll his head back, letting a little moan escape. you then got your first taste of him, a bit of pre cum escaped him.

then something caused him to change, you don’t know whether it was your tits bouncing with every suck, the way you looked up at him with tears in your eyes as you was deep throating him, or the fact you’d just made him moan, but he wasn’t leaving any room for forgiveness. he held your head still and started to thrust in and out of your mouth, the noises caused by this was obscene. pornographic almost. “uhh, uhh, ah fuck… fuck…” george moaned with each thrust, being took so well by you.

you could barely breathe, but hearing a man be so vocal? you couldn’t care less at this point, you wanted to keep going for him. suddenly, george forcefully pulled out and pulled you up by your hair. “get back on that fucking chair, now.” you looked at him for a hint of what position he wanted you in, until he grabbed you by the back of your neck, pushing you towards it, “do i have to tell you what do with everything, you dumb whore.” you then found yourself propped up in the chair on your knees, leaning over the back of the chair, legs spread wide and your top still partially… never mind, now ripped off your skin and discarded on the floor.

george’s hands trailed under your arms and around your front, grabbing onto your tits. “fuck baby, these? yeah, these are mine. do you hear me?” you couldn’t get any words out, you could barely even nod. george took a hand away from one of your tits, and put two fingers in your mouth, making you tilt your head back onto his shoulder. “i said, do you hear me?”, you nod and pathetically attempt a “yeah” but it came out as a desperate moan. “good fucking girl.”

he then pulled his fingers out, and cupped his hand in front of your mouth, wanting you to spit on it. you did, and a trail of spit followed his hand as he pulled it away, he laughed, as he used his other hand to smudge it around your lips. he put the cupped hand in between your legs and started to move it back and forth, wetting you thoroughly. before using the remnants to wet his tip extra. he then wiped the last of it on your ass, he used both thumbs to spread you wide, looking at your wet pussy from behind, and a groan escaped his lips at the sight of it.

he started to move one thumb around your entrance, “ple- please” you whimpered, gagging for him to put his cock inside of you. “what was that?” he asked, “please…” you attempted again. “please, what?” george asked, sharply. “please fuck me, please… please” you moaned out of sheer desperation. george then grabbed the base of his cock, pumping himself once, twice, before sliding it in between your legs, stimulating your clit slightly. you were both so wet, so it felt like a dream. you eventually feel the tip just at your entrance, and you could already feel how much he was going to stretch out your tight pussy.

you felt him dipping in & out ever so slightly, before he pushed his way in, thick & fast, knocking out any air you had in your lungs. you choked out a loud moan, almost more like a cry at the sheer size of him. he wasn’t fucking around, he was pounding into you with unrelenting rhythm, the angle you was knelt in was causing him to hit that sweet spot each and every time. you could feel yourself getting wetter & wetter. you could hear george moaning behind you, and fuck, how you love a vocal man. which made you moan more. “that’s it, let me hear you, darling. let me feel how much i’m wrecking this fucking pussy.” he spoke through gritted teeth.

the pleasure almost felt too much, with george pounding you from behind, and your tits brushing against the back of the hair, stimulating your nipples and it was almost like he could read your mind at that moment, he snaked his hand round your leg and his fingers met with your clit, circling in a way that was sinful. this took your moans up higher, and george let you revel in it for a moment, before stopping everything completely. you felt embarrassed at how much you needed him to go back in. he pulled you back by your hair, “spin” he growled in your ear.

you turned around and sat back down on the seat, facing him, he was touching himself, and what a sight that was. his chest flexing every time he moved, his breath hitching, and his eyes so dark. you lifted your legs up in the air, and george spread them wide whilst trailing his hands down. he then, pushed his way back inside you, slow this time. and then pulled all the way out, and then entered slowly again, before pulling out. teasing you in the most evil way. he then tapped your clit a few times with his tip before brutally pushing his way back in.

you tried to turn your head to the side to moan, to try and hide your face, but he grabbed you by your jaw, squeezing your cheeks. “you’ll fucking look at me when you moan over my cock.” he then kept a tight grip on your jaw, keeping your mouth open, he spits in your mouth, before brutally shoving two fingers down your throat, making you gag, which caused you to tense around his throbbing cock.

he realised that the more he shoved his fingers down your throat, the more you’ll tense. so he kept making you gag on his fingers, your face was just as wet as your pussy now due to spit & tears. george then pulled his fingers out, brushed your lips with his thumb before slapping you across the face, you smiled at this, being used. being treated so pathetically. “you’re such a fucking dirty little slut for me, look at you, so fucking wet, you pathetic mess”. he then fucked into you harder.

your naturally big tits were bouncing like crazy due to this, and they caught george’s eyes. he grabbed them and laughed, “fuck. me. i’m gonna have these in my mouth any minute i get.” he dipped his head to your chest, licking and sucking at your sensitive nipples. tit play was your favourite. it turned you on so fucking much. this just made everything feel ten times more intense. he continued to suck, lick, bite, play.

you could feel yourself getting ready to let go, if he started to play with both your nipples simultaneously, its game over.

spoke to soon, he was flicking both nipples like his life depended on it, your head tilted back, your hand on your thighs, squeezing like your life depended on it. your moans we’re barely audible anymore as you was reaching your climax, “fucking cum you dumb slut, cum for me”, and you did, fucking hell you did. but you could tell you could give more, so you started to rub your own clit, fast. and that’s when it happened. you let out a loud moan, and you started to shake as you squirted all over him. every moan you was making, every move of your body, the way you reacted, was completely out of your control. you blacked out for 15 seconds.

this made george feral, he fucking pounded into you with the most relentless force, making you cry due to the pleasure, “you fucking talented little bitch” he snarled, his rhythm started to falter, you could tell he was close. the sweat on his forehead, the way he couldn’t bite back his moans, his whimpers, his “fuuucks”, the way he kept rolling his head.

you felt a slight bite of confidence wash over you, “mhm, that’s it baby. cum for me, fill me up. fuck, yes.” you moaned, he looked you deep in the eyes after that, and he nodded, “yeah, yeah, yeah.” he moaned over and over again. his eyes squeezed shut as he locked in, and then all of a sudden, you heard the fucking sexiest moan you’ve ever heard from a man, his eyes shot open, looking down at your pussy, and moaned “fuuuuuuck baby, yes, i’m fuck- i’m fucking cumming. i’m cumming. i’m cumming, i’m cumming!” you moaned along with him, and watched as he started to slow down.

he started shaking as the last bits of cum dripped out of him and into your pussy, he leant down and gave you a deep kiss, both tongues invading each others mouths, along with heavy breathing, face holding and fingers tangling in between hair.

“fuck, you are… you’re something else. you’re not going anywhere.” he says in a possessive tone, he slowly pulls out of you, his cum leaking from your folds, he watched it before getting you a towel to clean you up with, showing you where the bathroom is and making you a cup of tea.

“not bad for number 6” you winked at him, before cuddling up on the sofa with him, talking about anything and everything.

first summer romance, complete…

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