#I REALLY LOVE THIS FIC

[timxstuff]

More of Ed from Surely Some Star Binds Me To You by @aachria. I tried my hand at making a character sheet for them. Plus line art only cause I'm quite proud of it

[zenaidamacrouras1]

how did you develop all of the backhoe sisters? and choose which characters to populate the holler with?

I don't know how to answer this in a way that isn't either super brief: chaos, whimsy and serendipity. Or super long and dull, "well then I thought this and then I thought that and in the end...."

Read the below with a grain of sand because this was a few years ago so it blurs together.

But what the hell.

For the sisterss, I wanted 5, I wanted bible names. I wanted one to have autism (Ruth) and one to have adhd (Poppy). I decided to make them all 3 years apart and then took Bucky's age and started subtracting and then had to make a chart of all their ages at all the varioes flashbacks and flashforwards.

I typically think of people in my real life who I find interesting and kind of mash a few together?? I try to give them negative character traits that either me or someone very close to me has, so that I can write that annoying aspect of them with some kind of compassion.

Otherwise they are just annoying.

I didn't fully understand them as kids till I had written the epilogue with them grown. Or at least envisioned it. So I just kinda trust the process and go back and retcon or whatever it's called when it's your own character.

I wanted Becca to be surly and tender and also career driven in a way Bucky wasn't.

I wanted Hannah to be on the cusp of extraordinary but completely awkward and uncertain about it. Peak teenager.

I wanted Ruth to be uncomfortable and never feeling like she fit quite in and also a brilliant and core part of the family. She is a big part of how the family functions, but she can't always see it. I feel so bad for her in her teen years. They are not great. It gets better for her.

I wanted Poppy to be a boisterous, joyful, messy, partially feral child.

Imma be real Sarah is the least fleshed out. Look I got tired. I think she is the most regular of all the siblings which is not a bad thing at all but it is sometimes hard for her. One of them had to be kinda normal I think. Sarah is sharp and well organized and likes thing in her life to be predictable and orderly. She is ambitious and driven about whatever she cares about but somewhat unpredictable in what she decides to care about.

Once I have a straw concept then I just put them in situations and see how they react. I figured people would get them confused as there are so many but I am happy if other people can tell I at least tried to make them not be a generic blur.

..

..

As far as the neighbors, I find it amusing to make Scott Summers a super boring normal guy. He's soooo boring. I mean he's a good person but zzzzzzzz..... I made him a super nice but boring normal person in Unpredictable Synchronicity too. Anyway im Backhoe they needed some nice middle class neighbors and honestly there are like no nice middle class people in the MCU. So Jean and Scott it is!

And Bucky needed another single parent in the holler and there aren't that many parents in the MCU plus I mean Maria is great even if she barely appears. It amused me for them to have this whole parallel romance in the background that Steve is barely paying attention to.

I was digging deep for MCU characters by the end. I went around and around for Ruth's partner she brings to the wedding, and who Sarah would marry.

[sharkneto]

God, one day I'm going to finish my Five And Allison Talk Post-S3 fic. I go back and just look at it every few weeks. Wish someone would finish it (me, I'm the someone).

Snip because maybe getting more of it out in the world will kickstart something for me. A continuation of the snip shared HERE --

-

Softer, Allison says, “I still don’t understand why you voted against it. It doesn’t make any sense. You spend your whole life fighting the apocalypse to just give up?”

Five knocks back the rest of his drink and considers the empty glass. He then stands to cross the room to pour himself another. She watches him. It’s not until he’s finishing the pour that he says, “It seemed like the better option.”

“In what world, Five?”

“In the one where, when we do follow Dad’s special little plan, it ends with me dying alone in the basement of the Commission as a one-armed centenarian.”

She swallows. In the harried few days before the end in Oblivion, a few details about Five meeting himself yet again and then watching him die had made it to her. She hadn’t given them much stock around everything else going on.

“He told me to not save the world,” Five continues. “And the only scenario I can think of that ends with me in a box in the basement of the Commission for a hundred years is one where you’re all dead. Again. And if that’s the situation, I’d rather be dead with you. I’m not doing that again, not if it was never going to work.” He swallows thickly before continuing, “Assuming that version of me thought like me, I figured that’s what his warning was. Add in that it was Dad’s plan and into a fucked alternate dimension… The math seemed bad.” He splays his hands, the dark alcohol sloshing in his glass.

Allison stares at him.

She should have paid more attention to those passing comments about Five meeting himself.

She blinks before shaking her head. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

He shrugs. “You asked.”

Slowly, she says, “So… your math wasn’t actually about saving the world or stopping anything. It was just… how you’d rather die?”

“That’s a rather inelegant way to put it but… yes.”

Allison studies her brother’s young face, working to slot this into her understanding of how everything went down at the Hotel. This whole time, she’d been assuming—what? That Five gave up? That he’d hated their dad more than he loved them? That he cared about her less than the others to have thrown away her life and happiness for a few good hours with the rest of them?

Instead, he was facing what he assumed was a no-win scenario that only he made it out of. The world already gone, and whatever they chose the rest of them would go too. The only difference was whether or not he was still standing on the other side of it.

And he voted to not be. He voted to be done.

It brings her to a single conclusion: “That’s so selfish.”

His expression twists, incredulous and hurt as her words sink in. “Excuse me?”

“It worked, Five. We’re here, right now, with everyone. It worked. And it almost didn’t because you voted to stay. Because you wanted to give up.”

“That’s not how time works, Allison.”

“We ended up in Oblivion anyway! And that worked, in a messy way, but it worked. If you’d just agreed to go to begin with, we wouldn’t have lost Luther. Or Klaus!”

“As I seem to recall, I wasn’t the only one who voted no! I was just lucky enough to be the deciding vote. And it’s probably because I voted no that it worked!"

Allison lets out a noisy sigh. “Explain that to me, how that makes any sense.”

“Because if I hadn’t talked to my future self and watched him die pathetic and alone, I would have voted yes. A chance to fix everything? Hit the undo, reset it all? Of course I want that! But easy fixes—”

“Easy!?”

“—easy fixes like that always have a catch! And if I hadn’t known what this one’s catch was, that it outweighed its solution, I would have gone for it.”

“So you voting no and then still doing it anyway changed that how?”

“Ripples, Allison.” He sighs. “Me voting yes would have meant we all marched in right then and probably were either killed by the guardians or got used up by the machine, even more than we were anyway. Think about it. We didn’t march straight in, so what happened instead? The kugelblitz advanced to our toes. Dad killed Luther. Dad left Klaus behind and he died, too, or, at least went to his Void or whatever he calls it. Which meant we had eyes on Dad when Klaus popped back. We had a ghost form of Luther to stop the last guardian, all his strength with none of his vulnerabilities of having a physical form.”

“Are you saying it’s a good thing now that Luther and Klaus died?”

“Obviously not! That’s no one’s ideal way for that to have worked! But it’s those differences that are what’s important, what skewed things to make us end up here instead of me back there.”

[mannka]

Shock. Liu Qingge sucks all of all the peak lords… blood :D

"His eyes are clear - perfectly white, but his irises have taken in a pale grey iridescence"

[leafiebeanie]

i am not immune to this man

he is just so fuckinf pretty, i can't—i want to gather him up in my arms and squish the heck out of him

boy deserves all the tender love and care in the world (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

also i'm very obsessed with this fic

i won't even bother to hide my obsession, no. i am unhinged for this fic and there's nothing i can do

here's the link to the amazing fic series that has me in a chokehold: https://archiveofourown.org/series/3736783

i can't even play the game properly bc this fic stays in my head 24/7 rent free

and the author's characterization is GOD TIER

the angst and slow burn feelings but also super fukcing raw and emotional passionate intimacy is such a good flavour

also the last chapter?!?!?!?!!!!!?!!!!!!!!

*RATTLING THE BARS OF MY ENCLOSURE*

sweet hells, i don't know what to do with all these feels and anxiety

this game and this fic had all of my attention since it released

sorry i haven't been alive/active much 😂😂

[the-bi-space-ace]

HI for the WIP ask game, i’m gonna do the same thing i did with Tanwyn and say i can’t decide on one so use this as an excuse to talk abt whichever one u want to most!! :D

Oooooooh yes okay. Well! I am very excited about:

8. Initiation

This one is actually a fic for this coming October! Fives and Echo are freshly 501st and they're on one of the bigger ships for awhile when spooky stuff starts happening. They aren't too sure what's going on but they're going to investigate! It's fun, silly, a little spooky. I'm excited to finish it for October! There are some 501st clone OCs in it too that I'm excited about. Have a snippet of one of the moments I've already written:

After a swig of his drink Beam grinned over at them and leaned his shoulder against the bed frame. “It’s finally official. Your first mission. How’s it feel?”  “I’m just happy to be off of that moon.” Fives huffed before taking another swig from the bitter beverage in his hand. He tried to keep the grimace off of his face.  Fang leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Yeah we heard about Rishi. You were almost sarlacc food.”  “It was actually an eel.” Echo corrected.

I love them. I love them so much. I'm excited for Halloween fics. I have a lot planned that I'm hoping to pull of for October :)

[martianbugsbunny]

My North Star (A CaptainCroc Fic)

Hello, friendly friends, I’ve written a one-shot CaptainCroc vow renewal. The only context you need is that they were first married those hundreds of years ago. Actually, that’s kinda mentioned in the fic, so just read it and have fun! 🫰😊👍

Hook couldn’t help staring at the man before him. The early evening light fell on him just so, lighting the streaks of both gold and silver in his mousy brown hair, giving peculiar clarity to the darker brown of his eyes.

Of course, it was more than just a regular day, so he was probably looking through rose-colored lenses. Which was not to say that Rumplestiltskin wasn’t always handsome, to Hook; it was just that they were renewing their vows, and seeing the love on Rumple’s face without any obscurant, for once, was rare. It lit him up in a special way.

Their wedding had been centuries ago, in a small, dirty building with straw on the floor and grimy windows. Since being reunited, after the Dark Curse was broken, Hook had wanted to have a ceremony in a beautiful place, as he thought they both deserved after all the pain their marriage had been through. So here they were, outside, in a stunning forest clearing, the air crisp and the trees bright green. It was everything they hadn’t had before. It was everything Hook had wanted it to be.

His eyes wandered about Rumple’s figure as he spoke his vows. He was wearing a coat with a wide skirt, made of a soft, deep blue velvet and embroidered with silver stars. The moon was stitched in right over his heart. He was rather dashing.

Finally it was Hook’s turn to say his vows. He took Rumple’s left hand in his right, pressing his fingers against the old band of gold on his ring finger. “For most of my life, you’ve been my guiding light,” he said. “Wherever you led, I followed. Whatever I did, I did with you in mind. Even if you went astray, I chased after you, and I’ve loved every moment of it.”

He could see the tears forming in Rumple’s eyes. He was such a romantic. And he rarely felt loved, which Hook would make certain changed now that he was back in Rumple’s life. “I am a seafaring man,” he continued. “The stars are what lead me to my next port. I’ve spent more hours than I can count staring at the night sky. But you, Rumplestiltskin...you are the North Star for my heart. I have spent more days than I can count watching you, and I will spend many more in the coming years. Where your heart leads, mine will follow, and you will want for nothing.”

Their lives had been twisted and turned so many times, by fate, by themselves—by each other. But everything that took him away from Rumple had been temporary, and everything that gave him back was worth it. “I love you, and I treasure you above all else,” Hook said. “And so long as there is breath in my body, we will not be parted again.”

It was moments later the ceremony was finished, with a rather enthusiastic kiss. Hook was already starting to think maybe they ought to do it again after the next three centuries, should they live so long. Maybe three decades would do.

Rumple did look splendid in his finery, but if Hook was to be honest, he preferred the scene of Rumple in his pajamas later that night. He had adored that sight since Rumple was dressed in simple woolen fabric, curled up in the captain’s cabin with a content smile on his face. He would adore Rumple in his silk pajamas, stretched out the four-poster in his own bedroom, until the day he died.

“My true North,” Hook whispered, climbing into bed beside him. He leaned over and kissed Rumple’s forehead.

“Was this day everything you’d hoped?” Rumple asked, settling against Hook’s chest.

Hook didn’t even need a moment to think. He’d finally gotten the chance to tell his husband how deeply in love he still was, how much he cared, and he’d gotten to provide for Rumple the fine day he’d believed Rumple deserved since their first wedding. He didn’t hope for or long for anything else. “That and more,” he replied, closing his eyes. “Today...like you...was everything I desired.”

[moomoorare]

I love nautical and seaside town horror stories. Tell me more about the fog and water that eats people

[moonytoast-x]

when you find a well written, thought out, interesting, page turning, in character, long fic with all the ships you like and a fascinating canon divergent plot you've never seen before and it's everything you've ever dreamed of-

but it's a wip. and the last update was over 2 years ago.

[silentexplorer18]

Requesting some Draft 1: Novel with a bonus of Suicide Meister for WIP Wednesday please!

Thank you so much for your ask and your patience! I'm about to hit my next major word milestone on Draft 1, so thank you for making me write. And!! Thank you for requesting Suicide Meister! It's one of my personal favorites!

The Enchanted Sword stood before him, staring down his nose with an air of reserved, accurately-gauged confidence seldom seen in Kishins. “I see you’ve finally come.” He bristled at the condescension, stepping forward quickly to get this mess over with. But the Enchanted Sword moved swiftly, arm extended with a long, dark blade.  He was going to be stabbed— He was going to be stabbed clean through!

[thekaiserroll]

Hug

It's nearly impossible to have a quiet and peaceful day with the crew, like the strawhats. Nami is mostly used to the noise on Going Merry but one day she gets fed up with Zoro and Sanji arguing. Not only are they extremely loud, but they've also already broken way too many things during their fights.

She decides that If they want to act like brats, then she's going to treat them as such. So she makes them apologize and hug each other in silence for an hour. None of them are happy about this punishment, but Nami threatened to raise Zoro's debt, and Sanji couldn't say no to her. It could be worse.

It's awkward enough for them to not incite any fight for a long time and Nami is quite proud of herself. She knows it won't last forever but at least now she knows how to handle them. It inevitably happens again. And again. And again.

Much to her surprise, those fights became more and more frequent. And what's even weirder is that she could see the way both Zoro and Sanji occasionally glanced at her to make sure she was nearby. It's almost as if they wanted someone to make them hug each other. As if they needed an excuse.... these idiots.

Soon, they don't even need Nami's help. When they aren't busy training, cooking or fighting, they cuddle together. Sometimes Luffy or Chopper would join them, but most of the crew knew it was their time.

After two years spent separately, they became extremely clingy. It's no surprise when they start sleeping in the same bed. What is surprising is that despite them behaving like a lovey-dovey couple, those oblivious idiots are STILL unaware of each other's feelings.

[literallyjustanerd]

so a few days ago I saw this post, and the accompanying tags from @brrmian :

the idea of Cody being simultaneously so cool on the surface and constantly overanalysing every interaction stuck with me so much that I ended up spitting all my thoughts into existence

so

enjoy a brief look into Commander Cody's mind:

[somnimagus]

My page for @sheikahzine; about Impaz's duty to her village, empty of people and full of memories.

[id in alt text]

[soosoosoup]

Chord Striker Au by @thatbennybee

[erinwantstowrite]

Dick and Tim would be REALLY good on reality tv,,, they're both charismatic (please do not forget that Tim makes friends/allies easily just like Dick can), handsome, CLEVER, and know how to play to a persona. i think they'd go on shows for fun and to de-stress. like one too many things piss them off in their daily lives and they could pretty much get a vacation from it just to go on these shows. no one in the family can talk to them and they get to annoy people, crack jokes, and get fun puzzles in the form of a literal puzzle or figuring out social dynamics of the other players.

sometimes they go on shows by themselves but mostly use it as a brotherly bonding activity. if it's a show where they can be a duo they're GOING to do it. and they're going in to play to a storyline, not to win. they don't need the money, they don't need the publicity, they just want to have fun. sometimes if they figure out that everyone on the show sucks and they get competitive, they'll win. but mostly their goal is "how can we make the funniest plot line look the most natural." or something like that. i know a producer LOVES to see them coming. i bet EVERYONE tunes in when they're on a show because they're fucking hilarious even if half of what they say are inside jokes. the rest of the family watches and they KNOW what those shits are pulling, they have betting pools where they guess what the two are gonna do next, they're the FIRST to make memes for both internet and for the family group chats.

one time they convinced Bruce to go (it's been many a years since he really had to play up the Brucie role, cause he's a dad now and the older he gets the more people expect him to mellow out, and even back when he was full Brucie, reality TV wasn't his thing). it was one of those survival based shows where you come is as a team and try to win together. Bruce got lost in the woods after going on a hike. The camera men literally lost him and Tim and Dick were playing it up for the camera. Dick cried and invited the other teams to a funeral. Tim had a speech that was basically "I think he's fine but this is my perfect opportunity to embarrass my dad with stories." The producers were like "we fucking killed Bruce Wayne oh my fucking god" and Bruce shows up at the funeral like "oh what a beautiful service my boys are so great." They won by pure luck and circumstances and they were actively TRYING to lose that game. They were gobsmacked at the end and everyone uses the moment they looked at each other in confusion and shock as reaction gifs

[sceletaflores]

slippery when wet!

pairing: patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: “so who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank. a shocked laugh bursts from your lips. “what?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “me or art? don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than i do.”

—or: patrick puts you in your place three months later.

word count: 4.3k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, p in v, fighting as foreplay, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y’all!), rough sex, semi-public sex, oral sex (m!receiving), fingering...kinda (fem!receiving), very light spanking, choking, degradation, creampie, throat fucking, mean!reader my beloved, art donaldson is there in spirit, patrick is gay for art, porn with a little plot, no use of y/n.

author’s note: no one can stop me from writing rough sex patrick fics. it's all i think about 24/7, and you guys are no help but like i love it so it's fine. i'm here to serve you and this is clearly what you want so who am i to deny you that? thank you to the beautiful anon who requested this, i hope you don't mind that i changed it from a locker room scene to a bathroom scene but that was just calling to me hehe. okay bye! hope you love it! xoxo mwah.

psst! tftw series masterlist!

You’ve been on the court for at least an hour and a half, running drills and trying to sweat out all of your stress. You were the only one in the building, but it was always less busy during finals week. Most people were camped out in their dorms cramming for fifty question tests or four part lab practicals. 

Art politely declined your invite, too busy studying for his business final on Monday. So you rented a tennis machine and worked on your backhand that way. It was a nice distraction, emptying your head enough that all the anxiety of finals started to melt away as you slid into a steady rhythm with the machine.

The door bangs open with a loud creak behind you, bursting the little bubble of tranquility surrounding you. The back of your head burns with the unmistakable feeling of someone glaring at you.

You hear him before you see him, a loud call of your name followed by heavy footsteps quickly coming towards you. The sound of his voice immediately grates on your nerves, all angry and shouty. You choose to ignore it, focusing on hitting each new ball the machine spits out.

It may have been a couple months since you’ve seen Patrick, but you’d always recognize the familiar way his voice wraps around each syllable in your name.

Three months, to be exact. It’s been three months since your big fight over the phone with Patrick. You blocked his number right after you hung up, so you haven’t spoken to him in just as long. He never tried to reach out, never messaged you on AOL or Facebook. The petty fuck actually went out of his way to unfriend you on both, so you knew he wasn’t exactly torn up about your abrupt split. 

“Hey! I’m talking to you,” Patrick shouts over the loud humming, sounding closer to you than he was before. You pointedly keep ignoring him, eyes fixed stubbornly on the machine. “You deaf or something?” he mocks, stepping up so you can see him in your peripheral vision. You say nothing, swinging your racket harder with each hit.

Patrick scoffs, stomping over to the machine and slamming his hand over the stop button. It makes a loud beeping sound, before shutting off completely. “Jesus Christ, you’re such a fucking baby.” you groan, throwing your head back in annoyance. When you finally turn to glare at him, you’re shocked at the state he’s in.

Patrick’s dressed in a tank and the almost too short shorts he’d usually wear to a match, and he’s dripping sweat. Curly black hair plastered to his forehead with it, his cheeks red and blotchy like he’d been in the sun. You raise your brow, looking at him with a confused expression on your face. “Where the hell did you even come from? How did you know I was here?” 

He walks back over to you, hands balled into fists by his side. “I was at a tournament in Mountain View,” he explains, jerking his head in the vague direction he came from, ”it was so close I thought it’d be wrong of me to not stop by and check up on you.”

You laugh, nodding your head lightly. “Okay, so you flunked out of another tournament and hunted me down like a creepy stalker to what? Yell at me some more? Call me a cunt again?” you step closer, lightly swishing your racket through the air dismissively. “I’m not fucking interested in whatever it is you have to say Patrick, we’re over.”

He smirks but you can see the way his jaw clenches, ticking in anger. “But you’re interested in what Art has to say?”

There it is. You really should have known it would all come back to this eventually.

You sigh, casting your eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “What’s your point?”

Patrick takes a step closer. “My point is that you’re not fucking stupid, and Art can’t lie to save his goddamn life. You knew exactly what he was doing.” His tone is accusatory, his brows pinched together hard enough to crease his skin. 

Your heart beat picks up in your chest, anger beginning to bubble up inside you. “I didn’t need Art’s help to realize that you’re an arrogant piece of shit and a gigantic waste of my time, you made it easy enough to pick up on all by yourself.”

Patrick laughs, loud and abrasive. “No, you just didn’t care.” he states darkly, shaking his head back and forth a few times. You can feel a few drops of sweat fling from his hair to land on the bare skin of your shoulders as he does. “You’re so easy that you’d spread your legs from him to stroke your own ego. You’re only playing into his whole kicked puppy charade to justify acting like a fucking whore, ‘Poor Art, he’s so sad and pathetic, I’ll let him fuck my slutty pussy to help his raise his self esteem!’.” He mocks, voice pitched up in an exaggerated impression of you.

Your grip tightens on the handle of your racket, knuckles turning white with it. You feel hot all over, anger simmering under your sweaty skin. “You’re seriously trying to lecture me about egos? This has nothing to do with Art! This is about you being a bratty little rich boy who’s never been told ‘no’ before so you can’t handle rejection. It’s fucking embarrassing.”

Patrick nostrils flare, brows pinching together in anger. “Art has nothing to do with this, really? You’re delusional if you actually think that he’s just this saint among men or some shit. He’s not, he’s a fucking snake.”

“Trust me, Art doesn’t have to be a saint to be better than you.” you sneer, voice sharp and unwavering. Your hands are shaking, blind rage racking through your body like thunder. “The only redeeming quality you’ll ever have is dangling between your legs so you better get used to this, because sooner or later everyone will leave you once they see past all your bullshit and realize that you’re nothing more than a worthless loser.”

Patrick’s jaw works furiously, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. You think something like hurt flashes through his eyes, but only for a second. It's gone just as fast, replaced by a mocking smirk that stretches over his lips slowly. He crosses his arms in front of him, shamelessly raking his eyes over your body. You can practically see the gears turning in his head. 

“So who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank.

A shocked laugh bursts from your lips before you can stop it. “What?” you ask, arms dropping to your sides limply. The completely one-eighty of his mood sends your head reeling. 

Patrick takes another step closer, invading your personal space. “Who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “Me or Art? Don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than I do.”

You laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief. “God, everything is always a dick measuring contest with you. It’s so pathetic like, seriously–”

“Answer the question.” Patrick demands, cutting you off sharply. He’s practically looming over you now, so close that you can smell him. That natural, manly, musky scent he always has after a game that drives you fucking crazy. 

It reminds you of when he’d come back to your dorm fresh off a match, still in the same clothes and not showered. Pumped full of adrenaline and so pent up, needing something to take his energy out on. You were always that something. He’d fuck your mouth like he’d fuck your pussy, like it was just another hole for him drain his balls into. You’d be face down in his crotch for what seemed like hours, right where his smell was the strongest. Forced to breathe it in so deeply you’d feel high off it, your brain turned to mush every time.

Heat swirls deep in your stomach, you haven’t been this close to Patrick in what seems like forever. You kind of forgot how much he affects you, especially like this. The sex was always better when you’d fight before.

“You’re a child.”

“You still haven’t answered the question.”

You huff, narrowing your eyes at him. There’s a sort of crazed look on his face, his pupils blown out and dark. It makes you pause, it’s the look you’d get right before he’d pounce on you. You’ve seen it enough times to know that something is different about it. He looks needier, more hungry. 

It has some of your anger subsiding, twisted amusement swiftly taking its place. If Patrick wants to ambush you like this, after weeks of radio silence, you might as well use it as a chance to fuck with him.

You smirk, cocking your head to the side slightly. “Art,” you say slowly, taking a small step towards Patrick, “is a better fuck than you ever were.”

Patrick pouts like an honest to God child, sticking out his bottom lip in indignation. “I told you not to lie–”

“I’m not lying,” you say innocently, voice dropping down to a whisper as you lean in even closer. You can see the freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks, darker than usual thanks to all the sun he’s been getting. “Last night he ate me out for hours, made me squirt all over his fucking tongue.” 

For the first time since you’ve met him, Patrick Zweig is shocked into silence. His eyes darken, you can’t even see the green anymore, the solid black of his pupils swallowing it entirely. “Bullshit,” he says quietly, clipped and skeptical. His breath fans hotly over your lips, it makes your spine start to tingle.

You smile sweetly, giving a small shrug of your shoulders. “I’ll send you the video.”

Patrick physically reels back, blinking slowly with the realization of what you just said. His lips barely part in surprise, pink and enticing. You revel in it, smirking at him smugly. His eyes flit across your face like he’s trying to figure out if you’re lying or not. You stare back at him unrelenting, all the proof you need is sitting in the video gallery of your pink motorola razr. 

Patrick swallows hard, you watch the way his adam’s apple bobs with it. He shifts his lower body subtly, but you’re too close to not notice it. Your eyes immediately dart down, and you’re almost giddy at what you find. 

He’s hard, the fabric of his shorts stretched over the length of his dick obscenely. You can see the faint outline of the tip pressing against the seam, a wet patch seeping through the gray material around it.

“Oh my god, you’re actually getting off on this!” you laugh wickedly, eyes glued to the lewd tent of his dick. “You’re calling me a whore when you’re the one getting wet just thinking about your best friend's mouth on my pussy. That’s fucking pathetic even for you, Ricky.”

Patrick is silent, breathing heavily through his nose as he stares you down so intensely you can almost feel the heavy weight of his eyes as they bore into you. 

It happens in less than a second, Patrick closing the distance between you and taking your arm in his strong hand so he can force you in the direction of the showers. His grip is tight on your bicep, fingers meanly digging into your skin and forcing you to walk with him. You put up a fight, kicking and scratching but he’s stronger than you. Not letting your slaps to his chest or nails sinking into his arm deter him from dragging you across the court. 

“Let me go asshole!” you snap, trying in vain to yank your arm out of his grip while you stumble over your own feet. “You’re such a fucking psycho!” Patrick ignores you, bursting into the men's showers and marching you into the first stall. He drags you inside, whirling you around to shove your back against the door of it roughly. It knocks the wind out of you for a second, the lock digs into your back hard enough to hurt.

“Art doesn’t have any fucking idea how to deal with a bitch like you.” he grates, fisting a handful of your harshly. “He’s too soft. Too busy letting you lead him around by his dick to try putting you in your fucking place.”

The sting of your scalp only adds to the warmth pulsing in your pussy, sticky arousal dripping wet in your panties. You meet his eyes, all the fire and want swirling in them mirror your own. “Art has a bigger dick than you bitch.” You spit, standing on your tiptoes to lessen the distance of him tugging on your hair. It’s a low blow, immature and basic but you don’t care.

Patrick just hum noncommittally, roughly hooking his fingers into your cheeks and dragging you forward until the tip of your nose is touching his. “Then your throat is still nice and stretched out for me.”

He drops his hands to your shoulders, forcing you onto your knees. You hit the ground with a heavy thud, a dull ache blooms in your knees at the force of it. “Fuck,” you hiss, pulling back instinctively but the hard plastic of the shower door pressing onto the back of your head keeps you pinned in place. Your hands fly up to his legs to try and push him away.

Patrick grips your hair tight, tipping your face up to look at him. You have a perfect view of him pushing his shorts down, letting his hard dick slip out as the fabric stretches taught across his thick thighs. “Open your mouth,” he demands, yanking your head to the side meanly.

“Fuck you,” you snarl, teeth bared in anger as you fight to stand up. Patrick’s strong hand on your shoulder keeps you down while the other starts to idly stroke his dick. He’s just as big as you remember, thick and hard only a few inches away from your face. The tip all red and weepy when he pulls his foreskin back on each tug, a thick vein running up the side that you want to trace with your tongue.

“Don’t be like that, baby,” he coos softly, rubbing his leaking tip across your bottom lip a couple times, smearing his pre-come around your mouth like lip gloss. “We both know you love it.”

He’s so cocky, so sure of himself that you want to keep denying him. But he’s also right, you can feel your resolve slowly start to crack when he pushes the head between your parted lips. The familiar heady taste of him oozing onto your tongue has you sighing contently, jaw relaxing the tiniest bit almost like a reflex.

The second you give Patrick an inch and he’ll take a mile. 

“There we go,” he mutters sweetly, pulling back slightly and then thrusting forward until your nose is buried in the short curls at the base. 

Your whole body tenses, throat constricting over the length of his dick as your fist his shorts in your hands. As quickly as he thrust in, he pulls out, letting you sharply gasp for air before it’s back and pressing insistently on your tongue. You let him in, forcing your throat to relax as he slides forward to press his hips into your face.

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he bites out, thrusting down your throat roughly. “Pussy’s so greedy it jumped on the next dick that perked up around it.”

You could only whine around Patrick’s dick, mouth too full to do anything but try and work your tongue over the throbbing length of him. Your throat burns, spit flowing down your chin messily along with his pre-come still steadily leaking from the hot tip of his dick. His big hands have an iron grip on either side of your head, his balls slap against your chin as he thrusts over and over and over. The back of your skull throbs, knocking into the stall with each pump of his hips.

“Fuck,” he groans, dropping his forehead down to the stall with a small thunk. “You look so good like this,” he breathes, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes, “so fucking pretty with my dick down your throat to shut you up.” You glace up to meet his gaze, 

Your pussy aches, so empty that you want to shove your hand down your shorts and stuff yourself full of your own fingers to dull the need. Your thighs glide together slickly, the wetness of your arousal soaking through your clothes.

It gets harder to breathe. Your choked off, spluttering gags start loudly echoing off the tile walls. Your hand slaps Patrick’s thigh a few times, he thrusts hard once more before he finally pulls back, smearing spit all over your tongue and out of your mouth.

“God, that was good baby.” he praises, slapping his dick against your right cheek lewdly. “As much as I want to pump this load down your throat,” he says casually, stroking his spit slick dick lazily, ”I want it in your pussy more.”

“I fucking hate you,” you growl weakly, voice absolutley wrecked. The tears sitting in your waterline blur your vision, you blink them away to see Patrick’s smug smile beaming down at you. 

“Then tell me to stop,” he shrugs, tilting his head to the side condescendingly. You glare up at him, but you don’t say anything. He snorts, brow raising in amusement. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

He shoves his shorts the rest of the way down, stepping out of them and hauling you up to your feet. You’re still desperately trying to catch your breath, chest heaving as you cough and gasp. Patrick rips your shirt over your head, flinging it over the stall along with his own. He turns you by your shoulder, pushing you against the wall as he yanks the shower handle to start the stream.

Water rains down around you, shockingly cold for a few seconds before it finally starts to warm up. Patrick makes quick work of your shorts and panites, yanking them down your legs and off your feet, tossing them in the corner of the stall with a wet thwack. He kicks your feet further apart, one hand on your shoulder and the other lining his hard dick up with your tight hole, letting the leaking tip press into you with the smallest amount of pressure.

“I know you missed my dick slut,” he says, bringing his hand down on your ass quickly, kneading the stinging skin roughly. “Art could be the best fuck in the world, he still can’t give it to you like I can.” He pops the head in, groaning quietly before he bullies his thick dick the rest of the way into you.

Your hole shakes around him. Patick is right. Patrick is always right, but you’d never tell him that. You wanted this. You missed this. The burn of Patrick’s dick forcing you open, stretching you so wide your toes curl. Him not giving you even a second to react before he’s pulling back and pounding into you brutally.

You cry out, eyes screwing shut at the sharp sting. You can tell through the haze of you brain that this won’t take long at all, the both of you already so worked up from Patrick fucking your throat. His right hand drops from your shoulder to your hip while his left slides up your torso, sliding along your skin to wrap around the column of your throat firmly. You keen loudly, throwing your head back to give him more room.

“I taught him how to use that fucking dick,” he goads into your ear, grip tightening on your throat. “Did he tell you about that? Huh?” He takes your earlobe between your teeth, biting hard enough to make you squeal into the wall. The title digs into your cheek, roughly scraping against your skin every time Patrick fucks back into you. 

You’re hovering over the edge, pussy throbbing with the burning need to come. Your clit pulses, swollen and sensitive but you can’t find the strength to drop your down hand between your thighs. They’re too busy scrambling for any kind of purchase on the slippery wall of the shower, manicured nails scratching against the tile uselessly.

You gasp for air, fighting to speak up under the intense pressure of his hand, “I could tell,” you choke out, barely audible, “you both fuck like you have something to prove.”

“You think?” he sneers, thrusting harder, your ass stinging each time he slams his hips into you. “Maybe that’s because we do. Maybe that’s because we both like seeing you fucking fall apart like this, seeing you beg for it after you finally stop being a little pissy bitch.” 

Your breath hitches as his other hand drops from your hip, delving between your thighs to slide the calloused pads of his fingertips over your swollen clit. You moan, thighs clenching together as he rubs fast circles over you. “You like that, don’t you? Being used like a fucking toy.” His hand squeezes just a bit tighter. “Say it. Tell me you love being our little slut.”

The words spill out of your mouth before you can stop them, a mix of desperation and raw honesty, “I love it,” you cry out as loud as you can, “I love being your slut.”

“God, you sound just like him,” Patrick chuckles into your ear, low and sinister. His hold on your throat tightens, cutting off your air entirely. You sputter, hand coming up to clutch his wrist like a vice. Your pulse thunders, hard enough that he can probably feel it against his palm. “Who do you think made him come harder?”

The image alone of Patrick and Art like that sends you flying to the edge. “Ah— Patrick! ” you moan, voice hoarse and strained, “Pat, I’m gonna— fuck—“

“Do it,” he goads, sliding his hand from your clit down to where your pussy is spread open on him. He pushes his thick index finger right up next to his pulsing dick, hooking it inside or you and stretching you that much wider. “Come on my fucking dick like the greedy whore you are.”

You let out a sharp cry as your forehead hits the wall, thighs shaking violently as Patrick’s hips become relentless. Your whole body tensing up as you come so hard your vision blacks out. You think you’re screaming, but it’s hard to hear anything over the white noise buzzing in your ears. Patrick’s hips don’t stop, fucking your abused pussy into overstimulation as he chases his own orgasm. His hand drops from your throat to dig into your hip to put more power behind his thrusts. You’re immediately gasping for air, taking in greedy lungfuls of it.

Patrick’s chest is plastered to your back, face buried in your neck as he rambles out more nonsensical obscenities. His dick pulses and twitches in your pussy, so close to filling you up.

An idea pierces through the fog of your brain, an idea so fucking filthy it has your pussy clenching weakly. You think back to the first night Art fucked you, how he almost came all over Patrick’s pants just because they were his, just because you said his name. How worked up and hard Patrick got when you started talking about Art. 

“When he fucked me for the first time, I was wearing your sweats, the green ones,” your voice is scratchy and quiet, barely audible over the shower’s spray, “he noticed.”

“Fuck– fuck you,” he grates out, hips faltering ever so slightly. “God, gonna come,” his hold on your hip tightens, strong enough that it’ll be sure to bruise.

You keep talking, spurred on by his reaction. “He almost came right there, he wasn’t even inside me yet, just rubbed his dick all over them like he could fucking feel you.”

Patrick gives one final slam of his hips, burying himself as deep as he can in your pussy. His low groans and curses fill the room as he unloads into you, pumping you so full of his come that you can feel each hot splash of it painting the walls of your pussy. 

He slumps down against you, hips twitching as he works through the aftershocks. You can feel his breath puff over the shell of your ear. 

You and Patrick say nothing for a long few minutes, running water the only thing to keep the room from being completely silent. Patrick is still pressed to your back, his chest heaves against your shoulders. You think you’d collapse if his hands weren’t still on your hips, practically holding you up.

You’re the one to break the silence, voice low and wrecked, “Art lasts so much longer than that…”

Patrick snorts against your back. “Fuck you.” he says, biting your shoulder hard and pulling his dick out of you in one swift move. You gasp sharply as his come floods from your puffy, wrecked hole. Thick streams of it dripping down your thighs until the water washes it away to swirl down the drain. 

You turn on unsteady legs, hair plastered to your face with water. Patrick is right there, knees knocking against yours as he shifts the two of you closer to the spray. He looks like a marble statue, water dripping down the tip of his nose and between the hard planes of his abs. He grins smugly down at you, “I’m staying at a hotel close to campus, unblock my number and I’ll send you my room number,” he wagers, hands sliding up and down the wet skin of your back. “I think you, Art, and I have something we need to work out.”

“Yeah,” you agree, nodding your head with a small grin. “I think we do”

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