#(this art was a mix between follower then ??? and then me)

[codacheetah]

Redraw of a screenshot from "We Need To Talk"

[arthur-lesters-spinal-cord]

Hey John you dropped this *holds up Arthur Lester*

[soulchronicity]

(roblor)

[nonuggetshere]

Shiptober day 1: Old Ship

Background made from IbisPaint's free assets

Gonna be doing shiptober AND goretober coz why the hell not!! Taking it slow and easy so some prompts might not be on time but fuck it, I'm having fun. Its a day late because I realised it's October really late in the day and couldn't finish it on time oopsie

My oldest ship I'm willing to draw is Freddy x Toy Freddy 😭 Specifically my human designs for them, god DAMN it felt weird drawing them after nearly a decade

Prompt list under the cut

[artdcnaldson]

changeover || art donaldson x reader ; patrick zweig x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: SMUT (p in v sex x2, fingering, f!recieving oral), drinking, pining after people you can’t have, a dash of reader x tashi, sprinkles of patrick x art, porn WITH plot

Summary: your ‘casual’ fling with art isn’t working for you anymore, which sucks because you probably love the guy. enter a freshly heartbroken patrick to take your mind off of things.

FALL 2006

You knew exactly why Art Donaldson refused to acknowledge that you were an item. You could see it clearly across the room— the way you were cast to the shadows while he followed Tashi around like a lost puppy.  

It made sense, even if it made your chest ache. Tashi was gorgeous, and was acing her classes, and was going to go pro soon and become a beautiful, all-American sports icon. And you were just some girl he’d met because he needed help understanding the reading for class. 

You’d known each other for months by then— hooking up, going on dates that ‘weren’t dates,’ spending most of your time together. And you stayed firmly in the no-labels zone. But you weren’t bitter. It was totally fine, being treated like a girlfriend in all but name. 

Art laughed and leaned into Tashi. It was totally fine.

You were nursing a beer in a red solo cup and trying your best to look friendly and approachable. The only reason you were even at the party was because Art had brought you, so you should’ve felt grateful. You should’ve been having fun.

But just as soon as you’d arrived, he’d slipped away with a promise to be right back. It had been over an hour, so it seemed like you had very different definitions of right back.

“Looks like your boyfriend stole my girlfriend.” You turned to see Patrick, tanned from his time on tour. He was only going to be at Stanford for the weekend before taking off for a challenger a state over, which meant he needed to capitalize on any chance to spend time with Art and Tashi. 

Unfortunately, you’d both been ditched.

“Art isn’t my boyfriend,” you said pointedly, maybe a little too quickly. 

Patrick knew better. The last time he came to visit, he’d interrupted a pseudo date night between the two of you (which was a nice way of saying he walked in on the two of you in Art’s dorm while his best friend was was knuckles deep in you). The rest of that night wound up being spent passing around mixed drinks made with cheap vodka and whatever you could get from the nearest vending machine. You overheard the it’s casual, nothing serious conversation they’d had through the ajar door while you bought more Powerade and Red Bull in the hall. 

But you were being so understanding and cool about that. 

Patrick narrowed his eyes slightly. “Really?” The corner of his mouth tugged upwards for a moment before he wrapped his lips around a beer can. He tried to hide it, but you saw. 

You chewed on your lip, stomach twisting with nerves and curiosity. He was probably just messing with you, trying to get your thoughts all muddled up about Art because it was fun. Still, you couldn’t help but ask the burning question echoing through your mind. “Did Art say something to you? About us, I mean.”

The question felt pathetic. A stupid, desperate girl begging to know if the guy she liked felt the same way. 

Patrick shrugged, leaning against the wall bearing the portraits of the ghosts of frat brothers’ past. “Not directly. But you’re here together, right? And he’s still seeing you.”

“I guess,” you replied with a huff, embarrassment burning hot in your chest. 

“If you’re worried about Tashi, don’t be,” Patrick said, sparing a glance in her direction. When you looked towards Art, and the way he was smiling and laughing and looked so natural beside her, a frown turned your lips. Patrick nudged your arm and offered a smile. “Hey, I’m serious. Nothing’s gonna happen there. Trust me.”

It should’ve felt nice. A total reassurance from the person who knew Art best. But it did nothing to quell the turmoil twisting in the pit of your stomach. Because if he really did feel that way, why was he over there with her?

Tashi Duncan. So beautiful, radiant, and perfect that she had total control over two men. Your paths didn’t cross much, outside of Art, and that was rare since he liked to keep you two apart. 

But there was a part of you that knew that Tashi would’ve been able to make you melt with one look, one smile, one word. You wanted to experience what Art did. You wanted to know what Patrick knew, and what Art was jealous of. Or maybe you wanted something of your own too, something to keep Art out of. 

“I need another drink,” you said suddenly, meeting Patrick’s gaze. “Do you wanna come with me?” Patrick’s eyes flitted quickly towards Tashi, where she bantered with Art and the rest of the tennis team. 

There was something in his expression you found incredibly familiar. That pang of jealousy. The ache of not belonging just right. The look was gone quickly, replaced by a toothy smile. “Sure. I could use something stronger.”

——

An hour later, Tashi left with Patrick, and Art quickly decided to take you back to his own dorm. 

His lips were insistent against yours, kissing you hungrily, completely dissonant to the delicate way he tugged down the zipper of your dress. His fingers were warm where they brushed along the line of your spine. His tongue brushed against yours, tasting of beer and mint gum.

“What were you doing with him?” He murmured against your lips just as he peeled off the cheap, bodycon dress you’d gotten from Forever 21. It was tossed across the room, to be lost in the mess of practice duffles and empty water bottles and dirty laundry. The only time he parted his lips from you was to lift you onto his bed and slot himself between your thighs. 

His tongue licked into your mouth possessively, claiming you as his from the inside out. You gasped as one of his hands kneaded your breast, panting open-mouthed against his lips. “Who?” You managed weakly, your mind completely blank except for Art, Art, Art. And maybe a tiny voice in the back of your head that was still thinking about the Tashi of it all.

“Patrick.” His voice was soft against the tender skin of your jaw. “I saw you two talk, then you disappeared for, like, an hour.” His teeth nipped gently at your pulse point as he nuzzled against your throat, awaiting your answer. 

So he had been watching? He was with her, but he was still thinking about you. It made your heart flutter. You moaned softly as his hand slid between your thighs, teasing you through your panties. “Getting drinks,” you managed feebly. “Fuck, Art, I can’t concentrate while y—“

You gasped at the feeling of his fingers slipping beneath the band of your panties, teasing you with delicate touches. “Just drinks? For an hour?”

A strangled gasp escaped you as fingers slick with your arousal met your clit. When your eyes opened in surprise, you found Art staring right back. His touch was relentless, flooding your senses with pleasure as he demanded an answer. “We were in the living room,” you managed between soft pants and moans. “He was telling me about the— god— about the tour.”

Art’s expression flickered slightly— a tiny furrow forming between his brows. Was it doubt, or possessiveness, or anger? Before you could figure it out, his lips were against your throat, your panties were pushed to the side, and he was easing two fingers inside of your cunt.

“Fuck,” you cried out, grasping onto his shoulders. French manicured nails scratched at the pastel-colored polo he wore— why was he still wearing his clothes? Soft, keening moans slipped past your lips as he fucked you with his fingers. Every thought of him preferring Tashi or him leading you on slipped from the front of your mind as his thumb rubbed at your clit.

With a free hand, you palmed him over his pants, relishing in the way he panted against your warm skin. You made quick work of the button of his jeans— you knew your way around him like the back of your hand. He was warm, pulsing in your delicate grip when your hand slipped beneath the band of his briefs. Slick at his tip with need. 

He moaned against your pulse point, nuzzling against you as you began to jerk him off in time with each pump of his fingers. 

“You smell like him,” he groaned, nose pressed to the spot just beneath your ear as his hips bucked into your fist with a new sort of desperation. You didn’t have to ask who he meant. His tongue slipped out, lapping at you briefly before sucking a bruise into the delicate skin there. 

His fingers flexed so they brushed against the sweet spot within you. Your eyes rolled back and a sob of pleasure clawed its way from your throat. “Need you,” you pleaded, equal parts a thoughtless cry and a demand.

And who was he to deny either of you that? A pitiful whine escaped your lips when he slipped his fingers from within you and moved your hand from him. He stood to clumsily pull off the rest of his clothes at the same time that you quickly shimmied off your panties and tossed them to the side.

”You’re so fucking sexy,” he groaned as he joined you back on the bed, slotting himself between your legs. You were so pliant and sweet beneath him, looking up at him with adoring doe-eyes and a pretty smile on your spit-slick lips. He should’ve been perfectly content.

As he parted your thighs, stroking his dick as he lined himself up with your entrance, he wondered if Tashi and Patrick were doing the same exact thing at that same exact moment. He could imagine it clearly— Tashi, splayed out on her bed, and Patrick right at home between her thighs; sinking in, faces contorting with pleasure. Before he could stop himself, a soft moan slipped past his lips at the mental image. 

Your nails dug into his shoulder blades as he sheathed himself within you, and he buried his face into your neck. Fuck. You really did smell like Patrick. The shitty Axe body spray that was supposed to smell like chocolate, and the lingering scent of cigarettes. 

You moaned prettily, pussy squeezing him like a vise. Manicured nails scratched against his back, delicate enough that the marks would probably disappear by that time the next day. He was so used to Patrick lounging shirtless around their hotel rooms after tournaments— severe-looking scratch marks looking like angel wings against his pale skin. He always wore them like a badge of honor the night after he snuck off with some pretty girl he’d set his sights on. That’s how you know you’re doing it right. 

Why was he thinking about Patrick?

He tried to lose himself in you— in how pretty you were beneath him, the sweet words falling from your lips with each thrust. Feels so good, Art. ‘M so close already. Gonna make me cum. 

When he looked down at you, your mouth hung open, lips shiny with spit, begging to be kissed. His mouth met yours messily and you both moaned into the kiss. He moved a hand between your thighs, rubbing at your clit as he bullied his cock into your inviting cunt. 

You came with a string of moans and expletives that made the person next door bang on the wall out of annoyance. Art had to pull out as soon as he felt you start to squeeze around him. All it took was a few clumsy strokes and he was spilling onto your stomach with an almost embarrassing whine. 

You both lay there catching your breath and cursing the shitty air conditioning in the dorm. He wiped the mess of cum off of your stomach with an old tee shirt that was hanging off the side of his desk and tossed it to the side to be dealt with later.

“You’re so gross,” you mumbled with a tiny laugh, reaching down to grab your underwear from your floor. After you pulled them back on, you watched him dig through a pile of clothes in a papasan chair for a passable pair of pajama pants. An amused smile played on your lips at the sight. “Do I need to buy you a hamper?”

He held up a pair of pajama pants to examine them, shrugged, and pulled them on. “I have one, it’s just full.” A boyish grin spread across his lips as he crossed the room towards his dresser. He tossed a random tee shirt from the drawer in your direction and climbed on the bed, grinning down at you. “See? I have clean clothes.”

You laughed as you pulled the shirt over your head, then turned on your side to face him. His eyes flickered from your face, down to the shirt, then back. You wrinkled your face in confusion and peered down at the shirt. 

“What? What does it say?” You asked with a laugh.  You held it out, squinting to make sense of the graphic— faded and upside down. Finally, your eyes lit up in recognition. “Oh! I thought you were more of a Maroon 5 and Justin Timberlake guy. I’ve never even seen a Blink-182 CD in your stuff before.”

Art cleared his throat and shrugged, thumbing the bottom of the tee shirt absentmindedly. “I went with Patrick a few years back.”

A smile turned your lips. “It’s sweet that you two are such good friends.” You reached over, brushing his curls from his forehead. He turned, pressing a kiss to the delicate skin of your wrist. “Did you and Tashi have fun tonight?” The insecurity in your words was palpable.

Art shrugged. “A party’s a party, y’know?” He leaned into your touch, letting you play with his hair. “Just lost track of time. I won’t run off on you next time.”

You chewed your lip shyly. “I think it’d be nice for the three of us to hang out sometime,” you said, watching his expression to gauge his reaction. 

“C’mere,” he said with a tired smile, effectively avoiding your suggestion. When he pulled you against his side, he nuzzled his face into the junction of your neck and shoulder. His breath tickled with each exhale, which made you squirm, but every so often he’d place a chaste kiss on the skin there and you’d forget why you wanted to ask him to move.

In the morning, when you woke up to his alarm clock blaring a local radio station, you realized it was the first time he’d let you stay the night. 

SPRING 2007

After your second drink, you decided that Art Donaldson had hung you out to dry for the last time. Well, probably the last time. 

Most likely not the last time. 

Knowing yourself, you’d be clinging to his side like a lost puppy in a few weeks’ time, if you even had the dignity to give it that long. The second his attention turned to you again, you knew you’d be absolutely relishing in the special affection he always gave you when he was experiencing Tashi-related withdrawal.

You were so stupidly in love (or in lust, or in whatever) with him that you’d accept just about anything he could throw at you. 

No labels, just casual? Fine. Ignoring you all night then conveniently remembering you exist when he’s horny and ready to go back to his dorm? Whatever. You’re game. 

You’d gone to every match, watched a few practices. Helped him study for exams, let him borrow the notecards you’d painstakingly written over the course of the semester. Jesus, you even wrote a few essays for him when his schedule got crowded and he just couldn’t manage.

All you asked in return was a date to a stupid formal, and he ditched you last minute for Tashi. Again. And you couldn’t even get pissed about it without feeling guilty, because she’d fucking gotten injured and it wasn’t her fault that the guy you were into was carrying a torch for her instead.

“You’ve been staring down the Reese’s Pieces for the last five minutes.” The familiar voice startled you from your sulking. The world filtered back in suddenly— the blaring music, the smell of cigarettes and pot, the chatter of people wandering in and out of neighboring dorms. When you turned, Patrick Zweig was leaning against the vending machine beside you, carrying a large Tennis bag and backpack on both of his shoulders. “Do you need five bucks?”

“Shouldn’t you be with Tashi?” You asked, brows furrowed with confusion. “I heard about her match. I just figured that you’d…“ You trailed off as you noticed the thinly veiled kicked-puppy expression he wore. “Oh.”

He swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, that’s… it’s over. Did you want the Reese’s, or not?” 

“No,” you shook your head and laughed. “I just needed…” you trailed off. What was it you needed, again?

You needed Art. A date to the formal. You needed to feel desirable and cared for. You needed him to get his head out of his ass and just fucking commit. You needed to tell Art to fuck off and find another groupie. You needed…

“Another drink?” Patrick suggested.

You nodded eagerly like that’s what you’d been thinking all along. “Yes. Another drink.” You paused, glancing at his bags. “Do you want to drop your things in my room first? My roommate is in Iowa, or something. She won’t mind.”

Your dorm was decorated in shades of pink and green, with a ruffled bedspread and faux fur pillows and blankets. You bent down to retrieve two bottles of Smirnoff Ice from a mini fridge. Patrick did his best to look away like a gentleman would. 

Well, he did his best. It wasn’t exactly his fault that his options were to look at your tight jeans or the bulletin board above your desk that was essentially an Art Donaldson shrine. 

Pretty pink push pins held up a photo of the two of you after one of his matches, both beaming at the camera. Then there were little notes he’d written you in his boyish scrawl. Tickets to movies you’d gone to see and tickets to his matches. 

“Here,” you said, drawing his attention back to you, thankfully in an upright position. You’d already popped the bottle caps off the radioactive blue drink you handed him. You were chewing your lip shyly, sweetly. “It’s kind of pathetic, isn’t it?”

“What?” He took a drink and nearly grimaced at the sweetness. After he finished it, he’d need to go find something stronger.

You sighed and took a long drink yourself. “I dunno, the whole… thing. Art.” You absentmindedly toyed with the hem of your shirt. “I mean, what girl with any self-respect lets a guy just screw her for months with no commitment?”

“Maybe self-respect is overrated.” He laughed and stepped closer. “Full disclosure? I only came here hoping that I could fuck someone and spend the night in their dorm. Free booze was a plus.”

“We’re in the same boat then,” You said, gazing up at him through your lashes. “We’re both jilted lovers who need a distraction.”

You tilted the bottom of the bottle up, chugging down the contents. When you were done, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and rolled your neck out. “Bottoms up,” you said with a coy smile. “Let’s find something stronger.”

——

An hour later, something by the Pussycat Dolls was blaring through a set of speakers in a darkened common area. You were the fun kind of tipsy, where you started to care less about everyone else and just found yourself buzzed in that light, easy kind of way. You danced to the beat without a care in the world while Patrick sat on the arm of a couch and nursed his beer. 

His eyes were glued to your body as you moved, almost hypnotic beneath the red Christmas lights that had been stapled around the ceiling. Your shirt had ridden up, revealing a sliver of stomach that you either didn’t notice or didn’t care to cover up. 

The only thought running through his head? Art was a fucking idiot. 

You glanced over at him and nodded for him to join you. He didn’t move, so, not one to give up, you joined him over on the couch. When he went for a drink, you tipped up the bottom of the beer can and forced him to finish it, even as it spilled past his lips and down his chin. 

“Thanks,” he deadpanned, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. 

With a pleased smile, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the middle of the room to dance.

He shook his head as you tried to make him dance— your hands on his hips, pushing and pulling and trying and failing to make him move. “No, no. I don’t dance,” he explained, as firmly as he could stand to be.

“Because you can’t? Or because you think you’re too cool?” You asked, raising a brow. He rolled his eyes, a smile playing at his lips. “C’mon, if you dance, I’ll tell you a secret.”

That did make him laugh. “What are you, five?”

With a shrug, you took his hands into yours and moved them to your hips. There was a hesitance in his touch, at first. But then his fingers splayed against exposed skin, and you were so warm. Your hips began moving to the beat beneath his hands. “See? We’re dancing,” you said, peering up at him through long lashes.

You looked genuinely victorious when he finally started dancing… kind of. It was less of an action and more of an acceptance. It had been abundantly obvious since the moment he walked into your dorm room that you wanted to end the night with him. Maybe it was because you thought it would hurt Art, or maybe it was because he was there and he was feeling the exact same things you were.

He’d done his best to resist out of some lingering sense that he could repair things with Tashi, and the hope that maybe Art’s spite would fade and they’d be friends again.

Despite skipping the whole college thing, Patrick wasn’t an idiot. He knew better. The second Tashi fell on that court, both of those doors slammed in his face.

And you were so close to him that he could smell the liquor on your breath. And Victoria’s Secret body spray. Mostly the liquor, though. He was barely moving, but you— you were something else. Hips moving against the thigh he’d slotted between your legs, arms trailing up his chest so you could sling them around his neck, pulling yourself impossibly closer. Even though you were grinding against each other like two horny middle-schoolers at their first dance, he’d had enough to drink that he didn’t really give a fuck. When he moved his hands from your hips to grab your ass, you gasped and laughed like it was the best thing in the world.

Your body moved so effortlessly that anything he could have possibly done would’ve looked clunky and clumsy. He groaned when you brushed against him just right, and he could tell by your smug expression that you knew exactly how you were affecting him. 

You leaned in, chest to chest. “Can I tell you the secret now?” You whispered, lips brushing against the line of his jaw. He swallowed hard and nodded. “I think it’d be a bad idea for us to fuck. We’re both in a bad place.”

“Mhmm. Bad idea,” he echoed. He wanted to reach out and grab your jaw, to tilt your face up and kiss you. One of your hands had slipped beneath the hem of his (Tashi’s) shirt, just barely teasing the skin there. It made him shiver and lean into the heat of your touch.

“But I still want to.” You sounded so earnest, so needy. Like you’d take anything he’d give you and thank him for it. “We can use each other to feel better, right? Just a nice, warm body and a rush of dopamine.”

It was exactly what Patrick had come to the fucking dorm rager for. To feel wanted and desired. For someone to look at him like he wasn’t actively failing at the one thing he was supposed to be the best at. 

But he was good at other things.

You guided him through the crowded hallway, way more packed than they had been before you’d started dancing. It was getting later, more people were falling for the siren song of R&B and beer. You were a siren of a different making— with much more dangerous consequences than a hangover.

It almost felt wrong to be back in your innocent, frilly little dorm with the intention of fucking your brains out. But the looks you were giving him were enough proof that he wasn’t the only pervert. Before you could get too far, he pinned you up against the door, displacing a dry-erase calendar in the process. 

You glanced down, eyes flitting towards the hearts around tomorrow’s date, anticipating the formal that Art had flaked on. Without looking back, you kicked the dry-erase board out of the way, a problem for later. 

His lips met yours in a messy clash— teeth knocking slightly until you found a rhythm with each other. Patrick Zweig kissed like he’d been at war for fucking years and had just returned home. He kissed like he had crawled out of the desert and the only promise of water could be found on your tongue. 

You’d never been kissed with that level of need and desperation— that desire— and you fucking loved it. The taste of his tongue licking into your mouth, the rumble of a moan against your own lips.

His hands were moving beneath your shirt, pushing it up as he went. A pretty whine slipped past your spit-slick lips as he squeezed your tits over your bra. Your hands stayed busy undoing his jeans. He moaned into your mouth when your fingers barely brushed against the bulge through the denim. 

“That feel good?” You teased, practically breathing the words into his lungs as you slipped your hand into his boxers. He groaned in response as your hand wrapped around him and pumped slowly.  There was something addicting about his need— you relished in the pulse of him, warm and bucking into your grip. And you wanted more. You wanted to be the one to make him come undone. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

His head fell back slightly as you brushed your thumb along his tip, the movement accompanied by another soft groan. The way you peered up at him with an earnest need to please made hot desire thrum within him.

“You could start by taking these clothes off,” he said, fingers roaming to tug at the strap of your bra. You started to move, slipping your hand from his boxers. Then you stopped.

“You’re not gonna help?” You asked coyly, goosebumps forming where his fingers trailed along your side, teasing at the band of the bra. 

That made a tiny smirk turn at his lips. “Does Art help?” It shouldn’t have turned him on— that little flash of longing for Art in your eyes. But it did. You nodded, shifting slightly to encourage more of Patrick’s touch. “Lift your arms.”

As easy as anything, you obeyed. No banter, no push and pull for control. It was so different than what he had with Tashi (who he shouldn’t have been thinking about), and he couldn’t help but wonder if that’s how it always was for you and Art (who he shouldn’t have been thinking about either). 

He tossed your shirt to the side and moved a single hand to the clasp of your bra, undoing it with a quick movement that he’d perfected at sixteen. Painstakingly slow, he pushed each strap down your arms, until it fell at your feet and exposed your tits to the overzealous AC of the Stanford dorms. 

Your nipples pebbled in the cool air, and his mouth watered in a near-Pavlovian response to the sight. His hands moved back to your chest, so he could thumb over the sensitive buds and relish in the way you shivered.

The wood of the door was cold against your shoulders as you arched into his touch. Manicured nails fumbled with the button to your jeans— you twisted and shimmied them off before kicking them to the side.

Before you could react, he picked you up and carried you over to the bed. A grin played at your lips as he practically dropped you onto it, making a decorative pillow fall to the floor. 

“It was only, like, five steps,” you said with a laugh. Patrick shrugged and made quick work of his clothes. You sat up on your elbows to watch him shuck off his pants, then awkwardly hop on one foot at a time to remove his shoes and socks.

When he finally joined you on the bed, he was clad only in his boxers, which were sporting an almost comically large tent. He positioned himself over you, that shit-eating grin ever present on his face. “Can I go down on you?”

You laughed lightly in disbelief. “Are you serious right now?”

He nodded. “As a heart attack.” He nuzzled against your jaw teasingly. “C’mon, lemme make you feel good, okay? I live for this shit.”

You giggled, pushing his face away. “Yeah. Fuck. You can.”

He trailed his lips down your jaw, then your sternum. He stopped only briefly to suck each nipple into his mouth, making you squirm and arch into him. Your hand moved into his hair, and he moaned against your tit as you tugged slightly. 

You watched him kiss down your stomach and peel your panties down your legs with his teeth through half-lidded eyes. Your cunt clenched around nothing as he slowly kissed up one leg.

The sight made your stomach flip— the sheer desire of it all. Your mind flickered to Tashi, as it seemed to do more and more. Tashi got this same sight, felt the same lips on her skin, and heard the same groans and pants. You could’ve laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all. At that moment, with Patrick on top of you, you were closer to Tashi than Art could even dream of.

A tap on the inside of your thigh was his wordless way of telling you to open up for him, to get out of your head and come back to earth. Your tummy fluttered as you spread your legs more and he slotted himself there with an arm slung across your stomach. 

“Fuck,” he said lowly, peering up at you. “You get this wet from just kissing?”

Heat burned in your cheeks at his obvious amusement, but you could tell he loved how responsive you were. His tongue traced you from your hole to your clit, making you cry out and twist your fingers into his curls. Quick, teasing flicks against your clit made your thighs tremble and squeeze around his shoulders. You were so fucking sensitive that it made him want to tear you apart.

It was messy— a sloppy mix of his spit and your arousal as he made out with your pussy. His nose brushed against your clit as he nuzzled deeper into you, moaning as his fervor was rewarded with more of your juices spilling onto his tongue. 

There was no method or precision to it, even though you were quite sure he could’ve had you coming undone beneath his fingers in no time at all. Patrick relished in every tiny reaction— in feeling your thighs around his head and your fingers in his hair. Relished in the taste of you on his tongue and the feeling of your slick smeared across his face. 

Your back was arching off the bed, nails digging just shy of painfully into his scalp. 

He opened you up with one finger, then a second. Your cunt accepted the intrusion with ease, like you were made for it. For him. He crooked his fingers just so and you cried out pathetically. He pressed there, constant and firmly and your fingers tugged harder on his hair, moans increasing in pitch as your breaths came in pants. 

“I’m— I— fuck—“ words failed you as his lips formed a seal around your clit and he sucked, making spots dance across your vision. In the absence of words, all you could manage were fucked out sobs and pitiful little whines.

Slick walls fluttered around his fingers, and your clit pulsed against his tongue. You were so easy to get worked up— a toy for him to wind up and set into motion. You came with a moan that would’ve made a weaker man cum inside of his boxers, your cunt spasming around the intrusion of his fingers. 

When he sat back and cleaned his fingers in his mouth, you were watching through half-lidded, hazy eyes. Tiny pieces of hair were plastered to your face and forehead, and you gave a breathless giggle as you looked up at him. 

“Holy shit,” you said with a grin as he shucked off his boxers and kicked them off somewhere across the room. 

“Feel good?” He asked, and pressed a kiss to your hip bone. You nodded wordlessly, feeling dizzy with need. “Gonna give me another one?”

“Yeah,” you said breathlessly, peering up at him with wide eyes. The tip of his nose was shiny with your arousal, which made warmth spread across your cheeks. With a sheepish laugh, you reached up and wiped it away with your thumb. There wasn’t much you could do about the mess on his mouth and chin. “You’re all messy.”

He kissed you slow— leaving his tongue against yours, making you taste yourself mixed with his spit. It was less of a kiss than a series of slow laves of his tongue against yours. It felt dirty, and a little gross, but you couldn’t help but relish in it. You’d never kissed Art like that, would’ve never even dreamed of it. Patrick was an entirely different animal. 

You stayed like that for a while— just completely lost in the feel of him warm on top of you, grinding his cock against your cunt as he planted messy kisses to your lips. 

“Condom?” He mumbled the words against your lips when he finally grew impatient.

“Mhmm. Bedside table.”

He fumbled inside the drawer, grabbing glasses cleaning wipes two seperate times before he finally found a foil packet in the bottom of the drawer.  

He held it between two fingers, an amused smile playing on his lips. “You sure this’ll fit me? I’m bigger than Art.”

You rolled your eyes. “Not by that much.”

“Where it counts, though.” His smirk was smarmy as he tore open the foil with his teeth and rolled the condom down his length. He spat in his hand and stroked himself as he peered down at you, like he hadn’t quite decided how he wanted you yet. 

“Turn over,” he finally said with a pat to the meat of your thigh. You did as he said, almost hesitant as you turned over and settled onto your forearms, arching your back slightly. “Does Art ever fuck you like this?”

He held the head of his cock at your entrance, teasing you with the tiniest amount of pressure. You took in a shaky breath and shifted, eager for more that he wasn’t going to give you yet. “Do you have to bring him up right now?”

No. He knew he really didn’t, but he couldn’t help himself at the same time. The thought of his Art in this same bed with you made it all so much hotter for him. He wanted to know how Art had fucked you, he wanted every detail burned in his brain. He wanted to be better, or maybe just be there with the two of you. 

It had gotten close. Once. Art was definitely fingering you under a blanket while the three of you watched a movie on his laptop across the room. Patrick’s thigh was touching yours— he could feel the way your muscles tensed and shook as Art played with you. He was close enough to hear the hitch of your breath. 

And if that hadn’t been enough to give it away, Art’s stupid fucking smirk and the obvious way his arm was moving would have.

He didn’t do anything then, but maybe he should’ve. 

“I’ll take that as a no.” He was slow as he sank into you, inch by inch. It could’ve been the position, or maybe his cocky bravado was completely founded, but he did feel bigger than you were used to. A soft moan was punched from your lips when he was finally buried to the hilt— your breath came in soft pants as you adjusted to the feeling of him. 

With your face pressed into your pillows, each breath you took flooded your senses with the smell of Art’s cologne. You moaned softly, eyes fluttering shut as your thoughts were overwhelmed with him.

“Shit, you’re fuckin’ tight,” he groaned. His fingers dimpled your skin where he held onto you. He moved one hand to rub the base of your spine in a way that could probably have been tender, on another day. You moaned pathetically into the pillows. “What? You need something?” 

One shallow, teasing thrust made your toes curl. “More,” was all you could manage.

“Can you take it?” Patrick cooed, smugness was practically dripping from his tongue. “Because I can go slow if you need—“

“You’re such an asshole. Just fuck m—”

A rough snap of Patrick’s hips cut you off suddenly. You cried out, grasping onto the bedspread feebly as he began to fuck you in earnest. 

Each thrust made the cheap, university-provided bed frame slam against the wall. The decorations you had hung up rattled, threatening to tumble right onto the floor and shatter, but neither of you even noticed. The moans slipping past your lips were pornographic.

But the sounds escaping you were nothing compared to the noises Patrick was making. Art had made an off-handed comment, once, about how much of a slut Patrick could be. You hadn’t really seen why until you got to hear the desperate, debauched noises he could make.

You slipped a hand between your thighs to rub at your clit and the feeling stole the air from your lungs. Your eyes rolled back, ass jiggling in time with each thrust.

Through it all, the memory of Art in this bed clung to you. Art, burying himself in the soft, wet heat between your thighs, flushed down to his chest and panting softly. His hungry kisses, melting sweet on your tongue like cotton candy. The whines that slipped past his lips, better than the prettiest music you could imagine. 

With each brutal thrust of Patrick’s cock into you, he punched out soft ah, ah, ahs from your lips. In your head, you just heard Art, Art, Art. Maybe that’s what you meant to say. 

You were probably in love with him. You were fucking his best friend. And it wasn’t even that simple. Patrick and Art and Tashi and somewhere between it all, you lingered. It was a giant clusterfuck of feelings and lust that you’d somehow tangled yourself inside of. Wanting someone so much, you want whoever has them just as badly. 

Maybe everything would’ve been a lot cleaner if you’d just locked the four of you into a room and stayed until every bit of tension had been fucked out. The idea of it all made you moan softly into the pillows. 

Patrick pulled you up suddenly, back flush against his chest as he continued to fuck into you. One hand grabbed at your jaw, turning you so he could press his lips to yours again, and the other squeezed at your tits. His mouth did a perfect job of muffling your moans— Patrick relished in feeling your pretty whines vibrate against his lips. 

“You feel so fucking perfect.” His words made heat flutter through you. “Need t’ feel you cum again. You have it in you, yeah? I can feel it.”

You nodded, eager to please. Pleasure was lapping at every nerve, lightning-hot. Your fingers rubbed faster at your clit as he pounded up into you. The whines escaping you were pathetic as your body crawled closer and closer to the edge. 

“Close,” you gasped out. Patrick licked into your open mouth, kissing you sloppily as you set a punishing pace on your poor, oversensitive clit. “So close— f-fuck—“

Your orgasm hit you suddenly. You clawed at his arm with your free hand, desperately seeking purchase as euphoria pulsed through your veins. 

“That’s it,” he groaned, his breath hot against your jaw. “Fuck— squeezin’ me so tight I can barely move— god—“

Your eyes were half-lidded as he worked you through it, rhythm only just beginning to falter as his finish approached. He pushed you back onto your stomach, manhandling your hips so your back was arched just like he wanted. 

You were reduced to whimpers and whines by the time he finally came— buried as deep as he could get, grip bruising on your hips. A few shallow thrusts were all he could manage before he pulled out, collapsing on beside you. 

You were catching your breath while he disposed of the condom in the cute trash can beside your bed, filled with gummy snack wrappers and broken pencils and old class notes. It felt like sacrilege. He laid back down, and you pulled a throw blanket over the two of you. 

With his head against the pillows, you wondered if he could also sense the phantom of Art’s presence there in the bed. Somewhere between you, forcing distance.

“So, when do you leave for your next tournament?” You asked. Unconsciously, you reached out to play with his hair, the same way you did to Art in times like these. “Soon, I bet. You usually don’t stay long.”

“Trying to get rid of me?” He asked, a tiny smile playing at his lips. His chest was still heaving with exertion. 

You shook your head. “I don’t want to get rid of you, Patrick.” He melted into your touch, eyes fluttering shut. 

In the morning, you’d wake up squished against Patrick’s side with the taste of sugary alcohol on your tongue. When you picked up your phone to see three missed calls from Art, it was easier to pretend that you hadn’t seen them at all.

thanks for reading :) if you enjoyed, please lmk by sending an ask, or whatever you wanna do <3

[littleprinces]

Day 12: Age Gap

Haerin x Male Reader

Kinkvember Day 12

She was sitting alone at a quaint coffee shop in Greenwich Village, her eyes scanning the crowd as she sipped her latte. She was new to the city and hadn't made many friends yet. As she looked up from her book, her gaze met mine. I was a 40-year-old man with a lean, muscular build, and I couldn't help but be drawn to her youthful charm.

"Excuse me," I said, leaning over her table. "I couldn't help but notice your book. Are you enjoying it?"

She looked up at me, a slight smile playing on her lips. "Yes, it's a classic. Have you read it?"

I nodded. "Many times. It's one of my favorites."

We spent the next hour talking about literature, art, and the city. Haerin was intelligent and witty, and I found myself increasingly drawn to her. As we left the coffee shop together, I suggested we continue our conversation over dinner. She agreed, and we walked to a nearby restaurant.

Over dinner, our conversation turned more personal. I learned about her dreams and aspirations, and she asked about my experiences in the city. The chemistry between us was palpable, and as the night wore on, I found myself wanting her more and more.

"You know," I said, leaning closer to her across the table, "I've really enjoyed our conversation tonight. But I have to admit, I'm finding it hard to concentrate on anything but you."

She blushed slightly, her eyes flickering with a mix of surprise and excitement. "Is that so?"

I nodded. "Yes. In fact, I think I'd like to see you again. And not just for dinner."

She raised an eyebrow, a playful smile on her lips. "Oh, really? And what did you have in mind?"

I leaned in, my voice low and husky. "I think you know what I'm talking about, Haerin."

She held my gaze for a moment before her eyes flicked down to my lips. "I think I do," she whispered.

The following week, Haerin came over to my apartment. As soon as she walked in, I could see the desire in her eyes. I poured us some wine, and we sat on the couch, our bodies close but not yet touching.

"You're beautiful, Haerin," I said, my hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I've been thinking about you all day long."

She leaned into my touch, her eyes never leaving mine. "I've been thinking about you too," she admitted.

I leaned in and captured her lips in a soft, gentle kiss. She responded eagerly, her lips parting to allow my tongue to explore her mouth. Our kiss deepened, becoming more passionate and intense.

I broke away from her lips and trailed kisses down her neck, feeling her pulse quicken under my touch. She moaned softly, her head falling back to give me better access. I nipped at her earlobe, making her gasp.

"You taste so good," I murmured, my hand sliding up her thigh. "I want to taste more of you."

She shivered at my words, her breath coming in short gasps. I unbuttoned her blouse slowly, revealing her smooth, creamy skin. I leaned down and captured one of her nipples in my mouth, swirling my tongue around it before sucking gently.

"Oh, God," she moaned, her hands tangling in my hair. "That feels so good."

I switched to her other nipple, giving it the same attention. Haerin's body was on fire, her hips moving restlessly against mine. I could feel her heat through her jeans, and I knew she was ready for more.

I unbuttoned her jeans and slipped a hand inside, finding her wet and ready. I stroked her slowly, my fingers exploring her folds. She gasped and bucked against my hand, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"You're so wet," I murmured, my voice thick with desire. "I can't wait to taste you."

I slid my fingers out of her and brought them to my lips, sucking them clean. Her eyes widened at the sight, and I could see the desire in them. I pushed her back onto the couch and slid down her body, my hands gripping her hips.

I hooked my fingers into her jeans and panties and pulled them down, revealing her glistening pussy. I leaned in and ran my tongue along her slit, tasting her sweetness. She moaned and arched her hips, giving me better access.

I licked and sucked at her clit, my tongue swirling around it before flicking it lightly. Haerin's moans grew louder, her hands gripping the couch cushions. I slipped two fingers inside her, curling them up to hit her G-spot.

"Oh, God, yes," she cried out, her hips moving in time with my fingers. "Right there, don't stop."

I kept up the pressure, my fingers moving in and out of her while my tongue worked her clit. Her breath came in short gasps, her body tensing as she neared the edge.

"I'm close," she panted. "So close."

I increased the pressure, my fingers moving faster and harder. Haerin cried out, her body convulsing as she came. I lapped up her juices, savoring her taste.

I stood up and undressed quickly, my cock rock hard and ready. Haerin watched me, her eyes filled with desire. I climbed on top of her, my cock poised at her entrance.

"Are you ready for me?" I asked, my voice gruff with desire.

She nodded, her eyes locking onto mine. "Yes," she whispered. "I'm ready."

I pushed into her slowly, giving her time to adjust to my size. She was tight and wet, her pussy gripping my cock like a velvet glove. I groaned at the sensation, my hips moving slowly at first before picking up speed.

"You feel so good," I grunted, my hips moving faster. "So tight and wet."

Haerin wrapped her legs around my waist, her hips moving in time with mine. "Faster," she begged. "Harder."

I obliged, my hips slamming into hers as I fucked her hard and fast. The sound of our bodies slapping together filled the room, our moans and cries echoing off the walls.

"Oh, God, yes," Haerin cried out. "Right there, don't stop."

I could feel my orgasm building, my cock throbbing inside her. I reached between us and rubbed her clit, my fingers moving in time with my hips. Haerin's eyes rolled back, her body tensing as she came again.

"I'm going to come," I groaned, my body tensing as I pushed into her one last time. "I'm going to fill you with my cum."

I came with a roar, my body shaking as I filled her with my seed. I collapsed on top of her, our bodies slick with sweat. I rolled off of her and pulled her into my arms, our bodies still joined.

"That was incredible," she whispered, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest.

I smiled, my eyes closed. "It was," I agreed. "And I'm not done with you yet."

We spent the rest of the night exploring each other's bodies, our passion and desire never waning. As the sun rose, we lay entwined in each other's arms, our bodies sated and satisfied.

[erinreality]

I shifted

I shifted to my nana dr for about six months (even though only six seconds have passed here, since I set the time so that one month in the dr equals one second in this reality). I'm still a little confused from coming back, but overall, I feel good.

This dr isn’t my main one but could become my main one. Before I share some details, I want to clarify that this DR doesn't follow the anime’s storyline. For example, that asshole Takumi will never meet Hachi. I'll try to keep it brief, as I don't like talking too much about my dr after all, it is real life .

I live about 15 minutes away from Hachi and Nana’s apartment, in a suburb of Tokyo. I work at a bakery and also do art. Living in Tokyo between 1998 and 1999 is a mix of nostalgia and surreal. It's hard to describe precisely. I’ve also learned to live without modern smartphones, using those old brick phones with buttons instead. This has taught me to live more in the moment, without the constant need to check social media or waste hours scrolling through TikTok, aimlessly losing time.

In this dr, I’m learning to be more independent. Thanks also to my experiences in my Kpop drs, I've learned to manage an apartment on my own here: I do the laundry, cook, manage my budget, pay bills, and work in the bakery. Oh, and I'm also studying to get my driver's license.

I’ve also started learning to play the guitar, especially thanks to Nana. Playing has always been a huge dream of mine, but I never had the chance to do it in this reality. Once, I even got emotional with joy while holding the guitar in my hands, because it’s something I’ve always loved doing.

My relationship with Hachi and Nana is really great.

Hachi is very close to me; she often texts to ask how I’m doing, how work is going, and invites me to hang out on weekends or go to the pub together. I love going out with her because she’s unashamed of anything or anyone, and with her, I never feel judged. She also has a great sense of style. Even though colorful clothes aren’t really my thing, she’s helped me find a style that suits me. I must admit, though, that she requires a lot of patience since she’s a bit naive.

As for Nana Osaki, I really love her a lot. She’s given me so much advice on some of my personal concerns, and she’s the kind of person who could listen to you for hours. She shows her affection through sarcastic jokes. We share the same taste in music. It took a little while for her to fully trust me and start confiding in me, but I understand her, and our bond has grown over time.

I’m still getting to know Shin and Nobu. Shin is very reserved, but I feel like we’ll become great friends. Nobu, on the other hand, has already opened up, and we’ve quickly become close.

Next time I shift, I’ll come back with a suitcase full of Vivienne Westwood clothes, necklaces, and rings!

[ram-bles]

HELLOOOO

I got a silly little ask, just a drabble from you would be fine 😁

Like- the reader (gender neutral) wasn't very open about their hobbies and such. One of their hobbies was like martial arts or smth (THIS IS VERY CRUCIAL ☝️☝️☝️)

Wellll, one day Jimmy (🤮) decided to try and touch the reader inappropriately and they just throw him over their shoulder saying something along the lines of "Do NOT touch me."

I KNOW IT'S CRINGE BUT PLEASEEEE, IT WOULD BE SO FUNNY 🙏🙏🙏🙏

I saw you're writing for only Curly and Daisuke, but if you wanna you can add other characters into the mix. It's all platonic, just a silly little ask cuz I wanna laugh 😁😁😁

[ Tulpar Crew & Reader ]

Oh I love this one. Also this reminded me to update my list thank u 4 unintentionally reminding me anon.,.,. ALSO DONT WORRY I DONT THINK IT'S CRINGE !

gender neutral reader, it gets silly later on i promise. not proof-read. wrote this really quick.

⚠️ tw: stalking, jimmy being a little too forward and close

The day was pretty much mundane, like always. Everyone was in their designated work stations, including you of course. Though, something felt off. It had been like this for the past week, and you hated it. You even blamed your lack of sleep for it. It seemed like there was something— someone, watching and following you when you were alone.

One time, you'd even woken up to the sound of your quarter's door closing. You stayed up all night, not wanting to inconvenience the other crew members for what you think might just be all in your head. Well, that is until psych evaluation day came and you opened up about this to Anya who so easily believed you, but seemed so uncomfortable with the topic. You decided not to pry out of respect. She offers her company when you need it.

That same night, Daisuke offered to host a game session to which everyone reluctantly agreed to.

Establishing good bonds between workers is key to an efficient working environment!

Anya, Swansea and Daisuke were sitting by the sofa, Curly dragged a chair just beside the game table, whilst you and Jimmy sat beside each other on the floor. The game involved four players and the crew decided that whoever loses first has to swap with whoever hasn't played yet for the next rounds. The game was getting heated, Daisuke and Anya, neck on neck. Unfortunately, not the only thing neck on neck. Everyone else was too focused on the game to even notice what Jimmy was doing. You can feel his breath against your skin. You eyed the others in hopes that they would see. Too busy. Annoyed and grossed out, you elbowed his ribs in warning, glaring at him. "Jimmy, don't touch me." He seems pissed, but that doesn't deter him from getting his entertainment. Jimmy presses on and you swear you felt your eyebrows twitch. The balls of this guy to even do this here.

Daisuke throws the dice, the three leans in in anticipation as they watch it slowly roll to a stop and—

CRASH!

Some game pieces flew in different directions, two table legs snapping from the force and Jimmy's weight. It was radio silent for a moment. The crew having different variations of shocked expressions. You had grabbed his arm and flipped his body onto the furniture.

"Fuckin' pervert. Are you deaf, or what? I said do NOT touch me."

Daisuke threw his hands up in the air and settled it on each side of his head, frustrated. "Oh, come on, man! I was so close to winni—!" His whining ceases when Swansea nudges him, instantly shutting up and processing what had just happened. It took a few blinks for him to register and he eventually bursts out laughing and pointing at Jimmy. It took everything from Swansea not to burst out laughing as well. Instead, he crosses his arms and huffs with a proud smile. 'Atta' kid.'

Anya on the other hand slips out a gasp, covering her mouth. Mostly out of shock, and no sympathy for the man whatsoever. When the other intern started laughing, she had to bite her lip and look away to suppress her own fit.

[ History of glenohumeral joint subluxation.

It happened way too fast for Jimmy to even process what just happened. He spits out something hard, probably a tooth. His shoulder slightly stings as well, probably dislocated. He'll get back at you some other time, he can't get back at you when everyone else is here and that pisses him off even more.

Curly had mixed feelings. But of course, he prioritizes his role and he has to mediate everything first and foremost. Rubbing his face, he sighs and stands up, putting his hands on his hips. He calls your name and you tilted your head to look up at him. "I have to discuss... this with you later on. Please drop by the cockpit, yeah?" You roll your eyes and nod, pouting. "Swansea, could we borrow your intern real quick?"

"Shift's over, go ahead."

He gives the eldest a nod. "Daisuke, please assist Anya. Help her bring Jimmy to medical."

"Youuuuu got it, Big C." He finger guns towards the captain then stands up to hover over the co-pilot. Curly could only give Daisuke an awkward smile at the nickname.

"Never call him that again."

"El Capitano." Daisuke helps Jimmy up, making sure he's pulling them up by the injured arm, making the man grit his teeth and groan in pain. Before the guy could even cuss at the intern, Swansea continued bickering.

"Do your damn job."

"Yessir. Swansir."

Anya and Daisuke finally went off the bring the poor injured co-pilot to treat him. And if you'd like to know, Anya taught Daisuke how to pull Jimmy's shoulder back to place. Yes, everyone heard him when it happened.

You helped Swansea clean up the mess by the lounge and in apology, offered to help repair the table the next day. He agrees and even offers Daisuke to assist you.

Curly had to lightly reprimand you for your actions, but you'd explained to him what happened. The best he could do for you for now is lie on the report.

Sustained through occupational accident.

Employee confirmed inebriated while working.

Property damage docked to Jimmy.]

[diejager]

Could you please do a platonic yandere Vladimir Makarov with teenage daughter reader? Where he finds out that he has a daughter and is watching her but after awhile he decided to kidnap her to keep her safe from anyone and anything.?

Cw: DARKFIC, protective dad, kidnapping, spoiling, isolation, platonic yandere, tell me if I missed any.

He hadn’t expected his drunken one night stand to come back to him seventeen years later, at the peak of his revolution and power in the world. It had left his mind by the end of the week, where he spent a night with a pretty woman that he’d approached in the joy and mirth of winning a seat in the political image of Russia, his seat secured and power promised. He was - felt - unstoppable at that point.

Then he learned he had a daughter, a sweet girl that looked like a perfect mix of him and your mother. Thrust into the beginning of your adulthood and the closing chapter of your childhood, you had grown so prettily, adorable and loving. You were perfect in his eyes. Receiving the love of a mother, being pampered by her with the little amount of money she could scrounge to send you to school and provide for you. She truly cared for you despite being a mistake, a regret that reminded her of their coupling years ago.

While he believed in receiving motherly affection, he didn’t like the way you lived. So poor and hungry, denied the riches and luxury of his name and money. He wouldn’t have you live like that. So he took you, flew down to your quaint home, dressed finely and followed by his entourage while he stared down your mother, waiting for you to come back home from school. He’d forgotten her name - your mother - but all that mattered was you. He knew your name, your hobbies and preferences, but he’d like to hear them from you, to know you by your own words and acts rather than the video surveillance and all the digging he had his men do. 

And when he saw you in person, standing anxiously before him, you looked much more beautiful before him than through his screen. He saw the apprehension in your eyes, the small frown that pinched as you fussed about your mother’s fearful expression, using yourself to protect her from him and his men, ignoring her pleas for you to stand behind her, to let her protect you. But you were fiercely protective and loyal, something he expected from his daughter, yet was still surprised by the depth of it, blindly loyal and faithfully protective to a fault. 

“This…” she didn’t know how to explain this situation, he could see it as plainly as the blackness of his suit, “He’s your father, sweetheart.”

Your face broke between pain, shock and disbelief, but none directed at her, only to him whom you glared so powerfully. You were still so determined to protect your mother, knowing that she hid him from you and had never tried to reach out to him —not that he could blame her, he wasn’t a merciful man, neither easily reachable, nor easy to face. 

He gave you his name and smiled, pulling the sweetest grin he could, seeming soft and tender for a ruthless man like him. All for his daughter, the gem that would inherit his empire. Ever so polite, you muttered your name, voice slightly shaky. You took after your mother, taking her last name rather than his, one that screamed power and danger, but he’d have it changed, no daughter of his wouldn’t be given the name Makarov.

He was satisfied with this, and with little need to stay here any longer, he stood and approached you, his hand calling yours to have you accompany him home. He would have you brought home, where you rightfully belonged. On a throne by his side, dressed in the best silk and fabric his money could gift you, given the best education and taught by the best academic in both English and Russian, and if possible, you’d be taught other arts: literature, ballet, piano, theatre and language. 

But he was… somewhat disappointed that you shook your head, declining his invitation to come willingly. He understood that you’d have to start over again, uprooted and starting anew in a strange world without your mother. Truly, he knew how that felt, but he’d grown, he became better and wanted the same for you: to be better and deserve better. 

“Mom!” your cries and scream hurt him, the sound chiseling at his heart, fighting him to return o your mother’s side.

His men held your mother back, careful not to harm her as per his words, he didn’t need her health jeopardised. He had plans of paying her for caring for you, giving her a monthly cheque to support herself, eternally grateful that she sacrifice everything for you. You were now under his care, protected under his watchful eyes and international spread of allies and influence.

“Don’t cry, милая,” he cradled you, seated on his lap as he wiped away your tears, his hushed but steady voice trying to soothe you, “We’re going home.”[darling]

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami @cassiecasluciluce

[lowkeyren]

—catch me if you can!

in which : it’s a classic game of cat and mouse between you and moze, yet why does it seem like the mouse is enjoying the chase far more than the cat?

pairing : moze x gn!reader

wc 1.9k, exorcist x ghost, last part ib a chinese superstition (ghost marriages), u tease HIM like.. a lot, implied past lovers if u squint, art by @/darkavey, reblogs r much appreciated!! enjoy <3

"the hunter gets haunted while trying to hunt the haunter" brain stroke? yeah me too. anyway, happy halloween! dearest @https-sourlimes moze kisser + lovely @cherieiu n @iceunhie proofread this ^^

moze senses your presence long before he sees you. the flickering candle flames dance erratically, casting long, distorted shadows across the walls as if acknowledging your arrival. his instincts sharpen as he scans the room, fully aware that you're close —though unable to pinpoint where you’re hiding.

his grip on the dagger remains firm, a steady calm settling over him as he prepares, knowing you're out there, watching him from within the shadows, waiting. he starts to recite an incantation; his voice echoes through the hall, the air crackles with energy, ready to draw you out. 

(after months of this relentless back-and-forth —countless of times you’ve narrowly evaded him, slipping through his fingers just when he thought he had you caught, he’s confident he finally has you in his grasp.)

the silence that follows his pause is nearly suffocating, broken only by the steady ticking of the clock. until a sudden chill slithers down his spine, accompanied by a soft, teasing whisper near his ear, so close it feels as if lips are hovering just above his skin, “were you hoping i’d appear just for you?” 

moze swears he can see you smiling through the reflection of his dagger.

instinctively, he spins around, heart racing, adrenaline surging through his veins —only to find nothing. the room is exactly as it was, albeit this time the ticking has stopped, and the candles in the room start to flicker, before the room goes completely dark.

he hurriedly scrambles to find a match, striking it to bring a flicker of light to illuminate the dark room, but his breath catches in his throat when he finds your face just inches away from his.

“boo—!” he’s unsure if his heart is racing from the shock of your sudden appearance or from your close proximity, perhaps it’s a mix of both. any closer and you would've…

he quickly composes himself and swings his dagger, aiming right for your chest —only for the metal to pass right through you. he stumbles back. “really, moze?”

“you should know by now that these basic rituals don’t work on me.” you tilt your head at him, a playful smile tugging at your lips, your eyes gleaming with mischief. “you wretched—” he begins through gritted teeth; you gently place a finger on his lips, the ghostly touch silencing him instantly.

“better luck next time, pretty boy.” 

his eye narrows at the nickname, a mix of exasperation and a flutter in his chest he can't quite put a finger on. he raises his dagger in a futile attempt to strike, but by then, you’ve already disappeared into a whirl of mist, leaving him grasping at nothing but the lingering echo of your laughter.

moze isn’t able to get a wink of sleep. 

pretty boy? he scoffs at the thought, not sure whether he should feel insulted that you called him a boy, or focus on the fact that you called him pretty. 

he shifts in his bed uncomfortably, trying to dismiss the strange flutter in his chest, but it’s no use. every time he closes his eyes, you're there —hovering at the edge of his thoughts, as if you’re haunting him (when he’s supposed to be the one hunting you.)

the memory of your teasing voice and the glint in your eyes keeps pulling him back from slumber, making him question why, of all things that happened today, that’s what stuck with him.

moze is anything but weak, renowned for his skill, his expertise is unmatched; yet of all the spirits he's faced —some stubborn, some cunning —none have been as elusive as you. 

what makes you so different, so maddeningly irresistible?

but now that he thinks about it, you’ve never attacked him, not once. it’s always him on the offensive; chasing, striking, trying to pin you down. while you, on the other hand, merely tease and toy with him, calling him those pet names that feel far too intimate for mere “enemies” before disappearing into thin air.

breaking his line of thought, a soft giggle reverberates through the hall, a sound both familiar and infuriating. 

…ah right, focus. 

he scans the shadows, every inch of the room, but finds nothing. “come out, i know you’re here!” he calls out, frustration creeping into his tone. you’re playing your games again, always just beyond his grasp, a tantalising wisp of a spirit who knows precisely how to keep him on edge.

in the dark, you closely observe moze. you notice the subtle rise and fall of his breath; he’s tense, exasperated, and yet something in his eyes betrays that flicker of intrigue he tries so hard to bury. it’s almost endearing, the way he’s so wound up, yet completely at your mercy.

“you can't hide forever,” he growls, his voice low, the sound echoing through the empty room. "show yourself, or i’ll—”

“you’ll do what, exactly?” you whisper from just behind him, a teasing murmur that brushes past his ear, vanishing as soon as he whips around to strike. “you’ve had a hundred chances to exorcise me, but you still can’t bring yourself to let go.”

“i’ll finish what i started,” he scowls, though it sounds more like a threat than a promise.

“so you say, but deep down? i think you’re starting to like this little chase of ours. are you sure you’re not the one who keeps coming back to me?"

—you swear you catch the slightest twitch in his expression.

“don’t flatter yourself," he mutters, though his words don’t quite carry the same conviction.

"then why do you look for me?" you tease, circling around him like mist, your voice a gentle taunt in his ear. "it’s not duty that brings you here every night, is it, moze?"

he’s known many spirits, but this —you, are something else.

as he stands there, lost in thought, you whistle from the end of the hall, your voice ringing out like a beckoning call. “over here, pretty boy.”

he fights the urge to smile at your audacity, the playful lilt of your voice slipping under his skin. “what are you playing at?”

“nothing, i just want to see how far you’ll go,” you reply, your voice laced with mischief as you linger just out of reach. “come catch me if you can.”

with that, you vanish into the shadows, leaving him standing there, heart racing, a whirlwind of emotions swirling within him. he steels himself, adrenaline kicking in as he begins his pursuit once more, knowing that this game is far from over.

“i know you’re here,” he murmurs to the empty space, half hoping for a response, half expecting you to just flit out from a corner without warning. 

just then, a sudden chill envelops him as your cool hand gently obscures his vision, he feels icy fingers trail along his skin, teasingly tracing a path from the nape of his neck down to his shoulders and across his chest, sending shivers coursing through him. 

a huff of cold air brushes against his cheeks, delicate and fleeting, like the whisper of a lover's breath. it lingers just above his skin, as if someone exhaled right beside his face.

(every fiber of his being yearns to call it a night, and maybe it's the exhaustion washing for him but… for a ghost, you sure smell good.)

he feels a cold touch on his neck, and he knows damn well that it isn't your hand, because one of your hands is still covering his eyes, while the other rests on his chest, fingers splayed across his palpitating heart. a gentle nip leaves behind a chill, igniting his senses and drawing a soft gasp from his lips.

his grip on the dagger falters, the weapon clattering to the floor as if it’s nothing more than weightless feathers. one hand finds its way to your waist, pulling you closer. the other instinctively lifts to your wrist, gently prying your fingers away from his eyes.

“don’t hide,” he murmurs, his voice more of a plea than a challenge, as if he craves the clarity of your presence more than the thrill of the chase.

“you want me to look at you?” you tease, a familiar smirk gracing your lips.

he’s acutely aware of how your body fits against his, the way your cold body contrasts with the heat radiating from him. “yes,” he replies, there’s a softness in his eyes, his gaze traces over you, as if to will you into life.

you lean in closer, the space between you narrowing until it feels like you’re suspended in time, and he realises he doesn’t want this game to end. not yet. not ever.

in xianzhou, there's a superstition —a whispered belief, if you will; that picking up money from the ground can bring bad luck, or worse yet, lead to an "accidental marriage" with a ghost. accepting the money, it’s said, forms an unintended bond between the person and the spirit who left it behind.

moze is well aware of this. he’s also very aware of the strales scattered across the ground in front of him, seemingly waiting for him to make a choice.

he glances around, though he’s not entirely sure why; deep down, he already knows there’s only one person who could be behind this.

“not today,” he mutters under his breath, though the way his heart quickens suggests he’s not as resolute as he wants to be. “why are you messing with me like this?” 

a soft giggle echoes in response, light and airy, as if carried on the wind. “it's fun watching you squirm,” you tease, your voice carrying a haunting ring that lingers in the air.

he narrows his eyes, trying to shake off the feeling that clings to him— “i don’t believe in superstitions.” —yet a faint, stubborn “unease” still twists in his chest.

“is that so?” you reply, amusement dripping from every syllable. “then prove it. show me how brave you are.”

his own heart betrays him with its racing beat.

“fine, if you’re so keen on games, i’ll play.” he hopes the sound of his boots scuffing against the floor will mask the frantic beating of his heart.

but as he reaches out, the air around him cools, prickling the skin at his nape. your presence looms close, closer than ever. “...are you sure?” you murmur, the amusement in your voice giving way to something softer. 

his fingers twitch, as the cold sinks deeper, prickling through his skin and settling somewhere far more vulnerable. “i’m sure.” he’s teetering on the edge of something dangerously familiar, a reminder of a time when your touch was warm, alive. 

“i wonder, will you regret it?”

he glances over his shoulder, feeling your chill wrap around him like a shroud. his hand hovers above the strales, fingertips just grazing the metal. “only if you give me a reason to.” 

"careful what you ask for,” you whisper. and he closes his eyes, unable to deny the ache that resurfaces, raw and unbidden. 

what makes you so different, so maddeningly irresistible? it’s a foolish question, yet he knows the answer lies within your eyes. he can’t help but wonder if, when he opens his eyes to meet yours, he’ll be stepping closer to salvation.

MASTERLIST.

[jesuistrestriste]

IMAGINE GIVING SUB!ART HEAD WHILE HE IS DRIVING

(I know we have never interacted but I binge read all of your mike faist characters fics and I’m obsessed with your blog so forgive me for intruding)

three hours, cross-state, is hardly a lengthy roadtrip, but you and art make it feel like one. packing snacks and making playlists for the ride. it's not often that you two will travel within the state; there have always been more occasions that require the two of you to fly. so, it's only natural for this to be treated like a fun little adventure.

almost like a date.

art's got a tournament tomorrow afternoon on the west side, yet he still insisted on being the one to drive.

after about an hour and a half, the songs start to loop back around in the mix and the lull of the highway's soft rumbling against the wheels makes the blonde's lids start to droop. it's warm inside the vehicle as the trees and fields of grass go by, and that only makes it harder to stay conscious.

and when you say something to art to try to get his attention, and he nearly jolts upright in his seat, you know you have to do something to try to keep him awake..

"baby.." you say, giving him a look that says 'cmon now'.

he sighs, blinking and trying to shake the sleepiness from his head.

".. 'm fine, i'm fine.." he tries to protest, fighting your gentle but accusatory expression. he fails. he yawns.

the sight of his tousled golden curls hanging over his forehead, and his strong hands gripping the steering wheel, is all it takes for you to start readjusting in the passenger seat.

you give a soft tug to your seatbelt to coax it to give you more range of motion, and then you're leaning over the empty cupholders between your body and his to start undoing the tie on his loose joggers.

art chuckles weakly and flushes tomato-red all over his cheeks, his gaze darting rapidly from your head hovering above his lap to the windshield.

"woah, woah," he breathes out, "i.. you don't have to do that. and isn't it a little illegal..?"

you smirk, grabbing onto the sides of his pants and pulling them down his hips to reveal just the top half of his boxers. just enough to get ahold of what you crave.

"do you want me to stop?" you speak softly and slowly, lifting your head up to look to his aqua blue irises. his pupils are massively blown, you notice them right away. he's already tenting in his briefs.

art swallows thickly. and then he shakes his head.

you nod, chuckling, and look back down to the last piece of clothing between your skin and his.

"ive got you, babe," you whisper, "just keep your eyes on the road and try not to get us in a wreck, yeah?"

he nods wearily, and a small jolt of his hips follows suit.

you pull down his boxers just enough to let his heavy parts spring out, and then you're leaning in to engulf his throbbing tip in your mouth.

art can't stop it-- he immediately lets out a guttural moan, low in his chest as his face crumples with the pleasure of feeling your soft, wet mouth suckle on his cock. one of his hands shakily reaches down from the steering wheel to affectionately rub over your upper back and neck.

"Ouungh— fuh-fuck..." he whines softly.

you hum around him encouragingly, beginning to bob your head up and down as you feel him swell over your tongue.

his back arches up from the seat, and his hand on your body tightens to fist at the fabric of your top like he's gonna burst.

"mmmph- mhmmm- mhmmm-" you moan around him. he groans, his eyes rolling back into his head, and he starts to needily buck his hips as you suck him in the exact way that always drives him crazy.

in the middle of taking him to the back of your throat, an involuntary hum of surprise is pulled from your chest as you feel the car swerve sharply.

you give a few playful but corrective pats to the side of one of his thighs, and he moans before he mumbles out a rushed 's-sorry, sorry'.

your tongue curls around his shaft, licking up the precome that's mixing thickly with your sticky spit, and you swear that you hear a couple stitches in your shirt tear as he pulls at it and shudders.

his eyes are on the road, but art's mind is wholly consumed by you and everything that you're doing to him. how is it possible for one person to know all of his weak-spots? everything that makes him want to spill down into your tummy as you milk him dry?

his thoughts of disbelief are cruelly interrupted when you begin to suck him faster, hollowing your cheeks and lapping at the underside of his cockhead as your palm strokes the base.

he lurches forward in his seat with a pained whimper right before his legs start to shake; his muscles tensing all over as he tries not to close his eyes and risk running the car off the highway.

"ohhh, shit, hah—please, i'm almost—“ he fucks into your mouth gently, waves of hot aching pleasure building up from his gut as he spares a few looks down into his lap where your head moves earnestly.

you don't hesitate; stroking and laving your mouth over him lovingly and passionately, making sure to hum around him in an effort to send some vibrations up through his pulsing length. you squeeze your eyes shut.

art can't hold back anymore. he just cant.

he's nearly curled over the wheel when his hips jerk once, twice, three times, and then he's crying out as he calls out your name and comes.

it gushes past your adoring lips, glazing them for just a moment before you swallow him down and let the walls of your throat squeeze around his cock.

your boyfriend is sobbing softly with overstimulation and ecstasy, writhing in the driver's seat. your hand only continues to move relentlessly though, stroking his oversensitive shaft and cupping his balls as he chokes on his words.

"oh, please," he whimpers out, fingers still tightly grasping onto your shirt, maybe even harder than before. his toes curl in his court-scuffed sneakers, and he slurs out an assortment of 'too much' and 'so sensitive' and 'i'm done'.

you slurp up his leaking parts and pull yourself off with a soft pop and smack of your lips, grinning as you sit up and look to his dazed expression; chest heaving, legs shaking, eyes lidded. his hand leaves your back to return to the wheel, but you dont miss the way it trembles against the worn leather.

your clean hand reaches up to push back his blonde locks, and he squeezes the steering wheel as he struggles to gain his bearings back. a chuckle leaves your saliva-slicked lips, and you lean in close to his ear as he pants like a puppy.

"you still sleepy?" you whisper lowly.

all art can manage is a soft shiver and a moan, but he shakes his head the best he can.

"good."

safe to say he drove the rest of the way to the destination without so much as a whiff of being tired. the only thing that bothered him during the remainder of the journey was the smug look on your face, and the way his half-hard dick wouldn't go down (no matter how much he tried not to think about your touch).

[girliism]

sweet virginal art catching the eye of vampire reader.

coming across virgins was so hard now a days, so when you stepped through the doors of this random frat party you were immediately hit with the sweet scent of pure untainted innocence. you had to find him.

locating art was very easy, the tall blonde was standing alone in the corner sipping a mix of vodka and fruit punch. “hi.” you can tell you startled him by how he jumped, nearly spilling his drink on himself. “h-hello.” he stuttered. cute. “what’s your name?” you smiled at him, eye contact never faltering on your part. art looked around before clearing his throat. “um, it’s art.” he said into his cup. “art.” you whispered to yourself, getting a feel for how his name felt. “that’s a really pretty name.” your long burgundy nails pushed some loose curls out of art’s eyes. “pretty name for a pretty boy.” his face blushed a bright red, all the blood rushing to his cheeks. it was making you hungry.

“can we go upstairs?” you said, kinda getting tired of art’s rambling about the possibility of at least 5 people at this party getting alcohol poisoning. “upstairs?” he questioned. you could hear his heartbeat pick up. you nodded looking at him. “yeah, it’s so much quieter up there. please, i don’t bite.” you pouted. art gulped. “o-ok.”

art followed behind you like a lost puppy and you pulled him through the crowd of people and up the stairs.

the second you were in the room you closed and locked the door walking towards art and pushing him onto the bed with an unhuman amount of force. “wow, you’re really strong.” you didn’t answer him, just moved to straddle him, placing your lips on his in a feverish kiss. “you’re so hot. smell so good, could just eat you up.” you said in between kisses. you practically eating art’s face, your experience lips and tongue working against his hesitant ones. you could feel art’s cock growing harder underneath you.

your trailed down his neck stopping at the silver cross that hung around his neck. “let’s take this off.” you whispered, yanking the necklace clean of his neck wincing a little as the silver burned your hand. “wait, that’s my-” art started to speak but got cut off by his own moan when the palm of your hand pushed on his boner. “shhh, don’t worry about that. let me take care of you, ok.” you whispered in his ear before placing a kiss behind it. art felt hypnotized by your words, immediately relaxing into your touch as you undid his jeans. “ok.” he sighed.

you continue to kiss at his neck, feeling his pulse against your lips before you pulled his cock out of his pants. art’s cock was an angry red and was already dripping precum. not wanting to tease him, you brought your hand up to your mouth spitting on it before wrapping your hand around him and jerking him off slowly.

art let out the whiniest of moans, his eyes closing and his head falling back. “does that feel good baby?” you asked. art nodded, opening his eyes to look at you. “y-yes.” you cooed at him, stroking your hand faster pressing your thumb into his slit. “oh my gosh.” art’s hands were gripping tight at your waist, moans and whimpers and the squelching sound coming from your hand moving filled the room. he was close, you could tell by how his hips kept bucking up and how loud he was getting. “you’re gonna cum aren’t you.” you said into his neck. “mhm, please can i? please.” he pleaded.

you pulled back to look at his flushed face. “of course you can.” you voice was sweet, and just before he came you opened your mouth. large fangs growing as you sank them into art’s neck, moaning at the the sweet taste the hit your tongue. art came hard the second your fangs bit into him, thick long ropes shooting out and painting his stomach and your hand as he let out a choked scream.

[t1red-twilight]

physio alternatives

summary: art gets injured during a game. you provide aid in helping him feel better.

warnings/content: gn! reader, fluff, hurt/comfort, pretty much no plot, just fluff, athletic injury, no use of y/n (it’s too much effort to type lol), inaccurate sports injury (don’t come for me, i was a theatre kid), art is whiny, pet names cause i’m corny, art history mention, food content discussed briefly, lmk if i missed anything

word count: 1.1k

masterlist a. d. masterlist

you were laying on the couch in the hotel when you heard him come in. even though you were nearly asleep, you immediately sat up when you heard him huff. using the palms of your hands to rub your eyes, you call out, “hey, art. how was practice?”

when you don’t hear a response, you swing your legs over the edge of the couch and walk to the entryway. you see art, his coach, and his physical therapist. seeing as no response was given, you ask another question: “everything alright?”

“no,” he nearly whines out. “we had to end early today.” he’s mumbling, just about whispering. after some semi-awkward silence, his coach speaks.

his physical therapist spoke. “art lightly sprained a muscle in his left leg. he’ll have to tread lightly for about two weeks.” art sighs again. his hands are in fists on his cheeks, pushing them up as his sits on the stool in the entryway. you walk over to him and rub his back.

“are you going to stretch him out at all?” art proceeds to lean against your touch.

“we were just about to-“ his couch says before getting cut off.

“can’t we just do it tomorrow?” art interrupts. his expression is a mix of pleading and petty anger.

you crouch down to meet his gaze. “darling, i’m sorry. but you should really listen to your coach.” he sighs out in disapproval. you hold his hand and trace over the lines on his face with your eyes.

and that’s how you ended up sitting in the background watching art’s physical therapist extend and retract his leg muscles. he followed every command, albeit reluctantly and with an air of annoyance. before leaving, his physical therapist gave art a knee brace. you’re not going to pretend like you had any idea of what was going on.

you walk his coach and physical therapist out. you’re glad that tashi, his assistant coach, didn’t tag along. but you’d never admit that. when you come back, art has made his way to the couch. he looks like a rendering of the death of marat, the way he’s dramatically sprawled about.

“i’m sorry, honey.” he grunts. “can i sit on the couch with you?” upon hearing your request, he sits up long enough for you to sit down. when you sit, he turns onto his side and lays his cheek on your thigh. you bring your hand to his head and trace over his ear and the curls on the side of his face.

his eyes crack open. “i feel like shit.” he looks like shit, just a little. but you’re not going to tell him that. you give him a crooked smile instead.

“any way i can help?”

“just stay here, i think. i’ve enough of people trying to fix me for the evening.” he places his hand that isn’t pinned under his body on your leg and traces his thumb in circles over it. it’s an awkward position, but art just likes being as close to you as possible.

you silently reach for the tv remote, and play some random game show. at first, you don’t notice him falling asleep; but soon you hear very soft snores coming from him. you exhale out of your nose in loving amusement.

you switch between watching him sleep and watching the crappy game show. the hum of the ac provides a cozy ambiance.

art sleeps for about two episodes of the game show. the show is weird, and has some old actor you can’t recall the name of hosting it. you have to use the restroom, but you’re not going to risk waking up art to go pee.

after some time, he stirs and wakes up.

“hey sleeping beauty,” you mumble out. he turns and looks up at you, and smiles. you smile back.

“how long did i sleep for?” he shuts his eyes again for just a moment.

you check the clock, “a little over an hour. you look uncomfortable in that position, though.” he hums. “did you eat after practice, or did you come straight here?” you can see his brain lagging, gummed up from sleep.

after a bit, he replies. “uhm, no i didn’t. do we have anything in the fridge?” you sit in thought for a moment.

“uh, i don’t know. i’ll go check.” you move to get up, but art wraps his one free arm around your thighs to try and keep you in place. “i have to get up to check. why are you being so clingy?” it sounds harsh, but the tone in which you say it is playful and not at all condescending.

“you’re evil,” he toys back.

you stand up and go to the kitchen. while looking into the fridge, you roll your ankles to pop them. the cool air from the fridge is minutely uncomfortable. “there’s ketchup and like two eggs,” you call back over to the couch. he peaks his head over the top of the couch, so that you only see his messy hair and his eyes.

“damn.”

“do you want takeout?” he stops, he’s thinking, you realize. he’s thinking about how this is going to affect his performance in tennis; unhealthy carbs and all that. “you’re supposed to be resting. some chinese food isn’t going to ruin your mad tennis skills.”

he shrugs and lays back down. “only if we can get orange chicken.” you look in the info booklet the hotel gave you when you checked in, and found a nice looking restaurant to order from. after you ordered, you sit back down on the couch. art returns to reclining on top of you.

soon, the smell of chinese takeaway fills the hotel room, and you sit and eat together. it’s a domestic scene, despite being in a hotel room a few states over from where you both live.

after dinner, you help him wash up and get ready for bed. you insist that he at least take a quick shower. going to bed covered in dried sweat is not the most pleasing thing to think of. you sit outside the shower and speak to him while he cleans himself.

he talks about everything and nothing all at once. he talks about practice, his parents, something shitty that he heard another player say while he was at the court earlier. the vibrations of his voice carry throughout the bathroom, and it’s silly, but it makes you feel nice. you’d let him talk about anything, really.

when you get in bed, art holds you tight. he keeps you in his arms, and lies his head upon your chest.

as you’re both nodding off, you feel art mumble something into your neck as you hold each other. “hm?”

“love you,” he recites.

you kiss him on the top of his head. “love you too.”

[knottedhearts]

Baking with Billie: B.E

The kitchen was a delightful mess. Flour dusted the countertops, and the sweet aroma of vanilla filled the air as you and Billie worked side by side, both laughing at the organized chaos you’d created. She had flour on her cheek, just a tiny smudge, and you couldn’t resist a soft chuckle as you watched her squint at the recipe.

“Are you sure this says a cup of sugar? I feel like we’ve already put in half the bag,” Billie questioned, looking at you with mock suspicion.

You grinned, shaking your head. “You know, that’s the beauty of baking—it’s part art, part science. I say we go with our instincts.”

“Instincts, huh?” she replied, narrowing her eyes. “Alright, chef, I’ll trust you… but if we end up with rock-hard cookies, I’m blaming you.”

She shot you a teasing look, but before you could respond, she dipped her fingers into the bowl of flour and flicked some at you. A small puff of white dust landed on your shirt and cheek, catching you completely off guard.

“Oh, it’s like that?” you laughed, grabbing a pinch of flour yourself and dusting her shoulder in return. She gasped, putting on an exaggerated look of shock, and soon the two of you were in a full-on flour fight, both laughing uncontrollably.

Finally, after you both called a truce, Billie leaned back against the counter, cheeks flushed from laughter, eyes bright. “You’re a terrible influence, you know that?”

“Me?” you said, pretending to be offended. “You started it!”

She rolled her eyes playfully and handed you a spoon, already loaded with the cookie dough. “Fine, truce. Here, taste test it and tell me it was worth it.”

You took a bite, savoring the sweetness, and nodded. “Perfect. Just like you planned it,” you teased.

Billie smiled, a hint of a blush rising in her cheeks. “Yeah, well… maybe I had a little help.”

You and Billie burst into laughter.

The laughter faded entirely, and for a moment, it was just you and Billie standing there, the kitchen mess forgotten. You looked at her, and her eyes held a softness, a silent invitation that made your heart race. Slowly, you leaned down, brushing your lips against hers, testing the waters. Her lips were soft, warm, and she responded with a gentle pressure that sent a spark through you.

Billie’s hand slid up around your neck, her fingers tangling in your hair as she pulled you closer. Your arms wrapped around her waist instinctively, drawing her in until there was no space left between you. The kiss deepened, slow but with an intensity that made your heart pound faster with every second. Her breath was warm against your skin, and you could feel the way she melted into you, as if she’d been waiting for this as much as you had.

Her hands moved from your neck to your shoulders, fingers tracing gentle lines that left a trail of warmth. You pressed her closer, savoring the taste of her, the way her lips fit perfectly with yours, the way her fingers felt tangled in your hair. Every movement was unhurried, yet full of a quiet urgency, like you were both trying to make up for every second you’d waited for this moment.

Your lips parted, just slightly, and she followed, deepening the kiss even more. Time felt suspended; all you could feel was her, all you could hear was the sound of her breathing mixing with yours. Her hands slipped down to your chest, resting there as if to feel the beat of your heart, grounding you both in this intimate moment that felt as fragile as it was powerful.

Eventually, the two of you broke apart, just enough to look at each other, faces close, breaths mingling. She smiled softly, her eyes still holding that spark, and you couldn’t help but smile back, feeling closer to her than ever. The mess around you was forgotten, and in that quiet, shared gaze, it felt like there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

[always-just-red]

Hey, a fluff scenario for cuddling with Rafayel? Thank you 🐡✨

This one really got away from me ahaha, whoops. There's also a moment where my fine art degree really leaps out, so look forward to that, everyone. My first time writing for Raf - thank you anon!!

Perspective

Rafayel x Reader 🎨

Summary: You've spent two hours preparing a meal for Rafayel, and he has absolutely no intention of sitting down to it.

Genre: fluff fluff FLUFF!

Warnings/Additional tags: established relationship, cuddling, kisses, lots of intimacy tbh (soft, not spicy!)

| Word count: 2k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Thirty minutes. You and Thomas had spent thirty minutes on the phone trying to figure out where your boyfriend actually was. Half an hour of he’s not with you? and no, I thought he was with you!— back and forth, like a metronome, and it wasn’t exactly the first time, either.

You’re seasoned investigators at this point: called constantly out of retirement for one last job you swear you’re too old for, and yet you know is never going to really be the last. You’ve already got matching t-shirts printed for the tortured agent’s next birthday: ‘Special Unit: Find Rafayel.’ (He won’t find it half as funny as you do.)

Neither of you had heard from the artist since Tuesday, and— it being Friday— he was either in his studio, painting, or definitely dead. It fell within your jurisdiction to find out, so you’d driven here two hours ago, texting Thomas upon arriving:

He's alive!! 🥳🥳🥳

You’re less excited about it now.

Stood at Rafayel’s kitchen island, you lay out the last of the buffet you’ve prepared to try to entice him away from his art. It’s worked in the past: has seen him sniff the air and follow his stomach to whatever you were cooking, like a stubborn stray cat.

“C’mon, Raf,” you call out, because he’s not taking the bait. “Food’s getting cold.”

“Not hungry!”

Your fists ball around the cutlery you’re setting down on the marble; he’s not eaten for three days. You glance up at him across the open space of his home, taking a deep breath through your nose as you watch him scrawl away at his painting. Somewhere in your mind, Thomas is speaking. This is what you signed up for, remember?

Reluctantly, you cross between the rooms, folding your arms as you come up behind Rafayel. “Raf,” you insist again, “come and sit down. Please? You need to eat something.”

“I’m fiiiiiine.” His paintbrush drags viridian over the lower third of his piece.

“You’re not fine,” you huff, and he doesn’t respond. “Rafayel.”

“Rafayel?” he mimics with a chuckle. “You’re mad.”

He’s ‘Rafayel’ in only two types of circumstance: when he’s making you really, really happy, or he’s making you consider the career-leap between bodyguard and assassin. It’s an extraordinarily thin line, and he just loves walking the tightrope.

“I’m not mad, just worried. Can’t you come eat with me? Your painting isn’t going anywhere.”

“It’s not,” he agrees, smoothing out a stroke of paint, “but what about my inspiration?”

“That’ll be waiting for you, too.”

“You think?” His lips curve as he pensively pokes at them with the wooden end of his brush. “I guess you did spend a lot of time cooking, huh? And if you’re really that worried, then…” He spins around with wide eyes. An epiphany. “Feed it to me?”

You stare back, unmoved by the puppy-like expression. He looks cute, yeah, but you’re not falling for it again. This is exactly how he looked earlier, when you’d convinced him to at least accept a glass of water. You’d almost drowned him in your subsequent efforts to actually get it down his throat.

Rafayel mixes three colours on his palette as you relive the ordeal. Like the once-white of his shirt, it’s awash with vibrant greens and blues, some fresh, some days-old. He pauses when he’s done, but you can tell he’s itching to get back to the canvas. “Give me, like… half an hour?” he estimates. The number’s been plucked from thin air. “The food’s gonna be delicious, even if it’s cold. You made it!”

“Raf, I—”

“And how can I even enjoy it if I’m racing to get back here? I wanna savour it, y’know? And anyway…” he trails off, his attention drawn by something above.

“Yeah?” you prompt, glancing upwards. There’s nothing there.

His gaze snaps back. “Sorry, the ceiling was doing something weird. But yeah, anyway, it’s not like you have to— I mean, it’s not like I’m going to— wait. What were we talking about again?”

Not much surprises you these days, but your mouth is still agape. Enough is enough. “Put the paintbrush down. You’re done.”

He nonchalantly returns to the painting. “I’m really not, though.”

You narrow your eyes. Reassess. “You were right about the ceiling.”

“Yeah?” He looks up.

You snatch the paintbrush. “Ha!”

He blinks blankly at you and your eagerly-clutched trophy, unfazed by the moment of triumph. “Cute trick,” he shrugs. He runs a finger across the palette and applies the new colour to the painting with a quick sweep. “What’s next, Miss Bodyguard? You gonna cut off my ha— ow, ow, ow! Hey! Take it easy!”

You’re pinching his ear, dragging him wordlessly to the kitchen, because you're out of things to say.

“Fine. Fine!” he groans as he tries to keep up with you. You release him and he straightens, his face pink, but not as pink as his ear. “You win! Let’s just get this over with, yeah?”

You stop dead in your tracks, then turn with a look so cold he couldn’t melt it with all of his fire.

“I mean— ahaha,” he laughs nervously, rubbing his neck. “It smells amazing, cutie. You’re amazing. I can’t wait.”

…

Rafayel sits back on his stool, still staring at his painting. The mood is different from earlier. There’s no more restlessness or impatience; he isn’t in a rush. He’s humming a soft song you’re almost certain you’ve heard before, but you can’t quite place the melody. It’s pretty, though: the sort of tune one might recall from a childhood music box, or maybe even a dream.

There’s a clink as you stack two finished plates. Then another. And another.

“Don’t,” Rafayel says quietly, catching your hand before you can collect the plate nearest to him. “I’ll do it later— promise. Sit with me?”

You were never going to say no, but his hands are on your hips before you can say yes, and he’s turning you gently— pulling you up onto his lap. You smile as his arms wrap around you, keeping you from slipping, and he’s warm as you relax back against him.

“What do you think?” he asks, staring out over your shoulder.

Your gaze follows his to the painting, still waiting for him. “It’s okay.”

“Oh yeah?” You can feel him chuckle before it reaches your ears.

“Yeah,” you confirm with a smile, shifting to face him as much as you can. “Kinda pales in comparison to my favourite masterpiece. This one,” you poke two fingers to his chest. “Right… about—” they walk higher, “—here!”

You boop his nose and he immediately scoffs, his face going red. “Sheesh,” he mumbles, unable to meet your eyes. “That was lame.”

“You’re blushing.”

“Am not!”

He squirms as you laugh and try to touch his cheeks; they’re going to feel hot, and he’s a sore loser. His hands don’t manage to capture yours, so they settle for finding your hips again, swivelling you around until you’re trapped by his embrace. You’re both one misjudged move away from toppling to the floor, so you let him keep his victory. What’s left of his dignity, too.  

Your laughter rescinds like a tide, but the quiet is far from empty.

“C’mon,” Rafayel tries again. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, nudging your head, urging you to look forward. His hair is feather-soft on your skin, and he peppers chaste kisses along the line of your jaw. “Tell me. What do you see?”  

You hum contentedly. “A painting.” You’re not thinking about it at all; your eyes are closed.

“And?”

“A plant. A sofa. Some curtains,” you recall.

“You know what I meant,” he grins against you.

You lean back with a sigh, no longer supporting your own weight, but sinking into him with trust and begrudging compliance. It’s not bad, as surrenders go. He gives you a squeeze of encouragement and your head rolls back, stopping at his shoulder. His breath is skirting over your cheek, just barely.

You open your eyes and really look at the painting.

“It’s beautiful, Raf,” you murmur. It is; it was always going to be. “Everything you do is beautiful.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he chuckles, “I know.” But he wants more. “Does it make you think of something, maybe? Anything?”

There’s no right or specific answer. This isn’t remotely your field of expertise, and you’re oceans apart sometimes, so he has to outstretch a hand. Two viewpoints. Two sides of a coin; you never should have seen each-other.

Your life is hunting monsters, and his is finding beauty in a world where they exist. It’s not what you see, it’s how you see it. Crimson to him is a sunset; to you it’s blood.  

Something in you aches as your eyes roam over his latest work. He won’t tell you what it’s meant to be, not really: that’s a private understanding between him and the canvas, his heart and every stroke of paint. Does it make you think of something? Though the marks are fixed, they’re somehow fluid. The emerald tones are marred by shadows, as though something’s lurking beneath the surface, but there are traces of white, too. Light: shimmering.

“Reflections,” you finally answer. “Scattered to anonymity by a now turbulent lake. They belonged to something else, once, but they’ve taken a new shape— a restless and ever-changing identity— and no-one knows what it is, let alone what it was.”

With a satisfied smile, you close your eyes. That ought to keep him quiet for a minute.

Sure enough, Rafayel is silent. You don’t have to see his crystalline eyes to know they’re set on the painting, soaking it in with a new perspective. His favourite perspective: yours.

You have never been strangers to each-other. Two sides of a coin are still the same coin.

With a light laugh of surprise, he plants a kiss on your shoulder. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For taking care of me.” He’s nuzzling into you again. “I know I can be—”

“A pain in the ass?”

He laughs louder. “I was gonna say eccentric.”

“Oh…” You draw air through your teeth. “Yeah. That’s what I meant.”

Your voice is humourless, your face plain. It lasts all of two seconds, and then the charade is falling to pieces; he’s nibbling at your ear, your neck, and it tickles mercilessly. You giggle, but you don’t try to escape. The punishment fits the crime, and who are you to deny him his justice?

You’re quickly running out of breath, so Rafayel ceases his assault, letting you get it back. “Can I look at you now?” you ask.

He clicks his tongue. “I’ll allow it.”

You shift and he lifts you a little— helping you twist around to face him. He smiles fondly as he links his hands behind you, stopping you from falling as you lean back to enjoy the view. It’s the best kind of smile: one that reaches his eyes and makes them sparkle, like the water in the painting, but infinitely more pretty.

You want to feel that smile on your lips, so you lean in and kiss him.

It’s tender and perfect and when you’re done, you snuggle closer, wrapping your arms around him and nestling like you’ll be staying there for a while. You can hear his heart, and though a part of it is in his painting, the rest is with you. Always with you.

“Shouldn’t you get back to your work?” you ask as you think of it, smiling into his shirt. He won’t— not tonight.

“Nah,” he says, running his fingers through your hair. “It can wait.”

[artdcnaldson]

tashi in the mix to this "teach me" verse hold on because..... tashi teaching you how to move your hips on a mans cock to make him crazy, on art because patrick would try to slip his tip in 😒,,,, hands on your hips, guiding you, you can feel her nipples on your back as she helps you rock back and forth over his dick.... art slipping and sliding through your slick folds, moaning when tashi turns your head to lick into your mou- i have another idea for patrick ill be back

hiiiii 🫶🩷

Rating: E (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (f!recieving oral, grinding, orgasm denial)

A/N: Your mind amazes me so bad it’s crazy. Patrick’s part is gonna be so 🤭🫶 I’m excited. Anyways. Need Artashi so bad it’s clinical

When you tell Tashi, her face contorts in a mix of annoyance and confusion. At you, for you, at them— it was hard to tell.

“Jesus, you’ve just been jerking and sucking them off for weeks now?” She asks, her lips turned into a frown

“I didn’t think you’d be upset about it,” you said shyly, feeling an uncomfortable knot form in your stomach. “It’s nothing serious between us, just—“

She stops you, laughing wryly. “No, I don’t give a fuck if they’re your boyfriends or not. I just can’t fucking believe that you’ve been getting them off and they haven’t even offered to make you cum.”

You feel heat in your cheeks. “Oh, I don’t… I don’t ever ask. It’s too embarrassing.”

Tashi rolls her eyes. “Jesus, if you can suck their dicks, they can make you cum. It’s not hard.” And she’s right. It’s not like you haven’t wondered what it would feel like for their hands to fit between your thighs, how different it might feel for their fingers to be buried inside of you— long and thick, different than yours. Or their mouths— even though thinking about it makes your stomach twist with embarrassment. “Whatever. I’ll fix it for you.”

Tashi will fix it. And that’s that.

It’s not even a day later that Tashi texts you, inviting you over to her dorm. “They’re fucking chauvinists,” she explains, knees brushing yours as you face each other on her bed. “They’re treating you like a fucking fleshlight because you’re naive. But you’re not going to be naive anymore. You’re going to get exactly what you want. What you need.”

“But I like it,” you admit nervously, afraid to let her down. “Being wanted like that.”

She smiles, brushes her hand along your cheek. “We’re not quitting. We’re leveling the playing field. They’ve given you some lessons, it’s my turn.”

Art Donaldson is a weak link— needy, sweet, eager. He’d follow Patrick or Tashi off a fucking cliff if they wanted him to. Art’s so easy that it’s no surprise when he’s at Tashi’s door fifteen minutes after she texts him.

Between you and Tashi, it’s easy to get him where you want him— desperate, wanting. All it takes are a few kisses and rubbing his dick through his jeans.

He watches, almost dazed as you kiss Tashi deeply, putting all those lessons from him and Patrick to work. And she’s like a mix of the two in a way— like she’d taken the care and hunger Art kissed with and tangled it up in all of Patrick’s intensity and need.

“That’s nice. At least they’re good for something,” Tashi murmurs against your lips. You nod, mouth open, leaning back in to kiss her again. She smiles, leans back. “C’mere.”

Tashi sits against the headboard, pulls you so your back is against her chest. Art slots in between your thighs with no instruction. He tugs down your shorts and panties at once, and your face burns as your pussy is exposed to both of them.

“Look how pretty she is, Art,” Tashi says. She’s holding your thighs apart, keeping you spread open for them. Her lips brush against your jaw and you sigh contentedly. “Give her a kiss.”

Art obeys easily, and his mouth meets your cunt like he’s making out with it. Slow laps of his tongue through your slit, tasting how wet you’d gotten from kissing them. He moans softly, nuzzles closer.

Your eyes flutter, rolling back as your body melts into the new sensation— lips and tongue, the warmth and wetness and pressure. It’s better than your own fingers, or the cheap vibrator you’d gotten at the mall.

You squeeze Tashi’s hand when his lips seal around your clit, nails digging into her palm, forming tiny crescents. “See?” Tashi says. “He’ll do whatever you want, you just have to make him.”

Art’s tongue dips inside of your entrance, making you moan. Tashi relishes in it— in seeing you experience all of it for the first time. It wasn’t fair, she decided, that she’d been left out from the beginning.

“Use your fingers,” Tashi instructs. “I shouldn’t have to tell you this, Art, you should just do it right the first time.”

He moans pathetically against your cunt as she tangles her fingers in his blond curls. You’re so wet that your body accepts his finger easily, like it belongs. He thrusts it slowly, curled just enough to brush against your sweet spot.

He’s grinding against the bed— desperate, needy. His brow is furrowed in concentration, desperate to make you cum so he can be rewarded and praised. He slips a second finger alongside the first, alternates between suckling on your clit and teasing it with soft licks.

You’re so easy to get worked up, especially when you’re sandwiched between Tashi and Art. Neither of them are surprised when you cum, hard and fast, clenching around Art’s fingers, grinding against his face.

Embarrassment and arousal mingle warm in your belly at the sight of Art’s face— all slick and wet. He leans in, kisses Tashi, then kisses you. He undresses while you’re coming down from it, wanting the two of you to lave him with attention, to take care of the aching need between his legs.

That’s not what he’s there for.

Tashi pushes him down onto his back, pins him there with nothing more than a look. He lays there trying to be patient, with his cock hard and resting against his stomach. You see it twitch as she peels off your shirt and your bra, throws her own shirt across the room.

Art watches in eager anticipation as Tashi guides you to straddle him, your wet cunt hovering right over where he wants it. His head falls back against Tashi’s pillows.

“Patrick’s going to fucking kill me,” Art groans.

“Why? She’s not fucking you,” Tashi said firmly. “You’re just going to lay there and be a prop. Be a good boy and lay still.”

His chest heaves as Tashi settles behind you, pressing her body against yours. “Alright, just move with my hands, okay? I’ll show you what boys like.”

You off wordlessly as she starts guiding your hips in slow, grinding motions. Art whines beneath you, as each slow pass of your hips makes your pussy slide along the line of his cock. His head falls back, and he tries and fails to buck up against you with his hips pinned under your and Tashi’s weight.

She guides your hips in slow circles and you whine at the same time as Art. “See?” She asks. You nod, head falling back against her shoulder. “All you need to turn his brain into mush is right here.”

Soon, the pressure of her hands on you is second to instinct— she lets her hands move up your body to squeeze and cup your tits. You turn, letting her lick into your mouth, relishing in the drag of her tongue against yours.

“Can you cum like this?” She breathes into your mouth. “Just using him like a plaything?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know,” you admit.

She just smiles against your lips, leans in for another hungry kiss. “Try.”

She guides your hand to the middle of his chest, giving you more purchase. The new angle makes you moan, eyes squeezing shut as your sensitive clit rubs against him.

“Good, keep going like that.” You almost whine at the loss of her warm behind you as she moves to sit against the wall. The perfect view of you and Art, both submitting to her whims. The sight of her with a hand between her thighs, watching you with a hungry, unabashed desire makes heat pool in your belly. Her fingers circle her clit with the skill of someone who knows exactly how to get what she needs in all things. “Look at him, not me.”

Art’s a fucking mess— red down to his chest, panting and whining beneath you. Without Tashi pinning his legs, he’s able to grind up against you, to seek that friction. Moans tumble past his full lips, and god, he looks so pretty when he’s pinned beneath you for once.

When you cum, it’s with panting moans and trembling thighs. Tashi finishes at the sight, of you— grinding down against the blond, who’s just lying there and taking it. Tashi rubs your back as you come down, smiling like she’d just coached you to victory.

You move off of Art and he’s still hard, still wanting. Pouting at the loss of the warm, slick pressure on his lap.

“Okay, you can go,” Tashi tells Art, with a soft pat against his cheek. He groans, chest still heaving, pouting. Tashi sighs. “You did your job, Art. Thank you.”

You watch him redress, obviously hard in his athletic shorts. He looks back, like he’s checking if Tashi’s going to change her mind (she doesn’t).

When he’s gone, she kisses you again, easing you onto your back, straddling your lap as she grinds her wet pussy against your thigh. “You’re such a good little student,” she praises against your lips. “No wonder they like you so much.”

tashi/patrick vignette next and they will match each others freak trust 🫶