#warning fan Art approaching

[artist-issues]

Got lazy and put all my unfinished Runner Five Doodles together. This is what I imagine she looks like in-game. (that’s her “Demons & Darkness” costume armor in the bottom right.) Complete with scars from where a botched surgery made her mute!

[ciaoteamo]

Milk and Water Pt. II

pairings: doppelgänger!Milkman x fem!Reader

summary: the aftermath of letting him in

pt.I

(art credits: @yunonoaii)

warnings: 18+ content

“…what. the. fuck.” You mutter to yourself, watching the scene before you unfold.

“mmm, how about letting me in now? promise i won’t bite you too hard” His eyes were dangerously seductive.

Your desktop fan and the slight rustling sound of (what you could only assume was) him touching himself filled the eerie silence of your office space.

However, he could still tell that you were hesitant to let him in, especially considering what he just did to D.D.D.

“how about this, sweetheart we-“

“if i open this door.” You cut him off. He shuts up quickly and halts his movements with a blank stare. His eyes watching you intently.

“you come straight to me, or else i swear to fuck. it will not be a good time for you. you copy?” Your hands were firmly grasping the edge of the desk as you stared the man in his color changing eyes.

“i promise” He kisses the window and you give him one last short lived glare before unlocking the door for him.

BZZT!

He slowly turns away from you and walks toward the door and you felt relieved to hear a light knock a few seconds later before he let himself in.

“see? you can trust the milkman” He grins.

He was a mess. Between the torn clothing, the blood, and his unzipped slacks that displayed his black briefs holding back a huge bulge, he honestly looked like something out of a wet dream.

“this is quite a small space… you think i’ll be alright in here?” He closed the door behind himself and strides toward you.

“you don’t have any choice but to be alright” You retort and he chortles.

“i love this mouth of yours… i’ve never crossed paths with a human as bold as you…” He tilts his head, placing a hand under your chin to lift it a bit.

“unless you’re actually scared… and using this boldness as a tactic..?” His irises turn white once again and his grip on your chin tightened slightly.

Though you were enduring a near death experience right now, being that you were this close to a doppelgänger, you were unbelievably horny.

“tactics?” You start. You already knew that you probably wouldn’t be able to get out of his grip just by moving, so you used a more… inappropriate approach.

You took a step closer to him, closing in the 2 foot gap that sat between the two of you and you placed your palm over his hard-on.

His grip immediately loosened a bit and his fingers twitched against your skin. What a reaction that was…

You feel more confident, realizing that he’s just another horny good looking guy. “is there a reason i should be afraid of you?” You ask, hand squeezing around him and a finger rubbing his tip.

He shudders and his hand falls from your chin and rests around your throat. His forehead tapped against yours, and your eyes were fixed on each other. “…you really are something”

“wish i could say the same for you“ You start, breaking the eye contact to look at his lips and sharp canines. “you’re just a slutty and messy excuse of a monster” Your words would probably be venom to anyone else, but this only riled him up more.

You felt his throbbing under your palm and grin to yourself before being greedily pulled into a kiss. For a brief moment, you could taste a metallic bloody taste on his tongue.

You moaned at the warmth of his mouth and felt his hands rested on your hips, rubbing circles into the area.

You release yourself from the kiss with his bottom lip between your teeth and a smile. “desperate, are we?” You tease.

“painfully…” His eyes glistened. “what’ll it take to get those pretty lips to go a little lower?”

“show me what yours can do first and i’ll see about returning the favor” You challenge. His eyes go back and forth between yours before he kisses you again.

This time however, he started to undo your uniform. Groaning so deeply that you felt the rumble in your throat. His skilled hands loosened your belt and your slacks came down and off.

Next he lowered himself and lifted you a bit to get off your socks and shoes, making him get more sloppy and needy within the kiss.

At this point he was squatting and you were standing over him, holding both sides of his face. His hands travelled up and down your leg as he stayed in his position and this time, he’s the one to break the kiss.

You were both breathing heavily, and staring each other down. You almost forgot your resolve and let him fuck you right then and there.

But you had to stay strong, for both of you guys’ sake. You take a deep breath in and til your head.

“well, you gonna show me? or are just sit there and look delirious from a simple kiss?” You teased.

“…may i?” He asks with a slightly raised eyebrow, gesturing toward your leg.

“go ahead”

“hold on to something right”

“why am i h- shit!” You would’ve fell right to the ground if it wasn’t for the shelf behind you that held last months documents. Albeit, they’re scattered over the floor now.

Your legs were snatched from underneath you and each one was hooked over the man’s shoulders. His warm breath against you felt sinister. It sent a slight chill up your spine.

His eyes stared down at your sex and he licked his lips, looking more excited than you did for this. “don’t let go” He says before using gis fingers to spread you sticky lips.

His tongue pressed hard into you and drug from your hole, up to your clit. You bit your lip at the warmth and felt your back arch against your will.

“ha~ this all you got? Thought you said you’d be bet- anghh~!” Your eyes widen and your mouth drops at the new feeling below.

“you were saying?” He mumbles into you. His tongue was longer with a pointy tip, and his lips were wrapped tightly around your clit.

The pleasure was almost overwhelming. You could definitely admit that he made you eat your words and replace them with loud endless moans.

As you felt yourself getting closer you began to grind your hips over his face, chasing after your high.

“don’t stop” You could barely get out the last word before the wave of immense overstimulating pleasure came over you.

You curse and take in a few deep breaths, calming yourself down a bit, and only then did he let your clit go with a ‘pop’, making your legs to twitch.

“that wasn’t fair” You jokingly glare at him, the sweat making your skin shine and chilly from the fan air.

“i told you i was better” He wipes his chin with his thumb and licks it clean without breaking the eye contact.

“you have to be some sort of… sex demon” You shake your head in disbelief.

“maybe i am?” He lets you tug him closer by his tie and give him another sloppy kiss. The change in size of his tongue being just below too much for you as it explored your mouth.

“well let’s see how long you can last then… hm?” You ask, beginning to leave a trail of light kisses on his next before a harsh bite.

You could feel him shudder and decided to have him sit in your office chair. “let me borrow this..” You say, undoing his tie while he sat.

You spin the chair around and bring both of his arms to the back and tie them to the chair. When you spin his back around, his had such a mischievous grin that you went ahead and addressed.

“yes, i know you could probably get out of that in a heartbeat” You start and roll your eyes. He chuckles, amused at your awareness. “but, will you?” It was your turn to put on the sly grin now. The second he managed to break free from his restraint, would be the moment you’d send him off.

“…” He read your face, bit knowing if he should say something sly or not.

“right, thought so” You smile and give him a few taps on the cheek.

You kneel between the man’s legs, finally addressing the large and throbbing penis before you.

“god you’re hard… you weren’t kidding when you said you needed help” You joke, rubbing his wet tip through his boxers with you finger.

He grunted a bit and readjusted himself in his seat. You look up at him before pressing harshly on it with your thumb.

“oh fuck you~” He throws his head back and you giggle.

You reach for the hem of his briefs and tug at them, signaling him to lift his hips. Once he’s exposed, you could really see the girth and length of him.

He was veiny, thick… bright pink tip, and god knows how long it was.

You put your hand around the base, it was warm and nearly pulsating. Your pace was moderate, giving him just enough to work with. You knew it was a nice steady pace when his hips slightly jerked up for more friction.

“needy boy wanting to fuck my hand? this wasn’t even the main event you asked for, love” You coo, strengthening the grip you had on him by a smidge.

“i can’t help that you know how to use those hands of yours so well” He remarks, still facing the ceiling.

You pump your fist higher up and use your own skilled tongue to drag along his vein.

“@$?!~” He moaned and immediately looked down at you with a snarl. An almost threatening one telling you that he wanted more.

And were you planning on giving it to him? Absolutely not.

You stare right back at him and smirk, using the same motion and occasionally sucking the pre cum from its leaky pink source.

“i’m gonna cum” Your eyes welled a bit at the large shaft triggering your gag reflex. But he was close so you would endure the slight pain.

His thrust his hips up a few times and you force your head as far as you could before completely stopping.

“fuck- why’d you stop” His voice was almost a whisper and suddenly thick white ropes shot into the air and landed on his thigh.

“oh i’m sorry, i’ll keep going” You reach for his most sensitive spots, overstimulating him into a nervous laughter as he begged you to stop.

It was fun watching him experience more than he could handle, but all good things come to an end.

He sighs in relief, sweaty, heaving, and dazed.

“can i be freed now?” He asks.

“sure, why not. looks like you’re done here anyway” You shrug.

“who’s done?” He stands up, simply snapping the tie apart.

“oh… you’ve still got more in you?”

“im the milkman, i never run out” He suddenly picks you up and sits on you on the desk. Jesus, these things are strong.

You wrap your hands around your neck, suddenly feeling the arousal for another round yourself.

His hands find your slick entrance, teasing the outside and slipping two cold slender fingers into you.

“mmm!” You mean into the kiss, holding onto his forearm as he fingered you at an inhumane pace. You break away and cat h your breath trying to slow him down a bit.

“i don’t want to cum from this, put it in” You say.

“yes ma’am” He lines himself up without your entrance and slowly pushes himself in with a moan. You could every centimeter of the stretch as he went deeper.

You tapped the back of your head onto the window behind you and felt him kissing on your neck and collarbone.

“fuck you’re big” Your voice slightly shook as you stated the obvious.

“and you’re so warm and wet inside, i ashamed to admit that i almost came putting it in” He chuckled before biting back another groan.

RIIIIING

RIIIIING

You snap your head in the direction of the phone and see D.D.D. calling.

Shit.

“stop, i have to take this.” He halts his thrusts and you grab the phone. “hello?”

“agent number” A deep voice says over the phone.

“5 5 8 4 3 7” You state clearly.

“thank you agent (Y/N), we’re calling about a few M.I.A. cleaners? it says in our system that you were the last to call. is everything alright?”

“ye-es~” You feel something rubbing your g-spot and look over at Francis. ‘stop, now.’ You mouth silently. He just smirks and speeds up.

“are you sure? you sound like you’re being threatened” The man on the phone asks.

“mhm~, im fine sir, just a little shaky” You put your hand over the phone speaker and look at Francis.

“what the fuck is wrong with you??” You ask, interrupting yourself with a few moans.

“just a little thirsty for some water” He thrusts harder, causing him to hit your g-spot, and your clit back to back.

You cover your mouth with your shirt and moan into it, hearing the buzz of a voice on the phone. Honestly you should be scared, they could show any minute, but right now, you could care less.

“im gonna cum” You whisper, still being mindful of the potential listeners.

“yeah?” He grabs a young and stands straight up, slamming you down into his cock. You let out something just short of a scream into the crook of his neck and find yourself twitching and shaking in his grip.

You heard a splash and felt him fill you up with his seed. You both were a moaning, groaning mess, heavily breathing in place.

“(Y/N), do you copy?……. we’re on our way” The phone then hangs up and the low buzzy voice is replaced with a prominent beep.

“you have to go, they’re coming” You lazily try to leave his strong hold with a tired push against his chest.

“but first” He puts you back on the desk where you rest your back against the cold glass window. “a drink..” His tongue grows longer right infont of you, and cleans you from your ankles to your navel, and of course he ran it over the bundle of nerves he’s been abusing all night, making your body jolt.

“you’re so delicious… i wish i could always taste you” His tongue goes back to its normal size.

“well i’ll get going now… i’ll be seeing you again soon, love. i’ll try not to cause too much trouble next time…” He gives you a peppery kiss on the nose and leaves.

Well, that’s one way to end your day shift…

[artdcnaldson]

okay but PLEASE elaborate on Olympics!Art AU

TeeHee

Rating: E (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (p in v), feral obsessive behavior, infidelity

A/N: And you would do it too, that’s all I’m saying. Also IMPORTANT note: I love Tashi, she is a mother to many. However this fic has a very obsessive reader who just wants to fuck a married man, at Tashi’s expense

Maybe you were a bad person.

You’d met Art and Tashi Donaldson before— a year back at an event held for Tennis’ rising stars. That was you, some other guys who had done well in the Juniors, a girl from an Ivy League, and more people that fell into the blind spots of your interest..

You must’ve looked so sweet in your formalwear, approaching the couple with shaking hands so you could say just how big of a fan you were. You had no ill intent then, not when you were face to face with two people you’d idolized since you were twelve and watching the Junior US Open. That night you’d taken a deep breath as you stared at the ceiling of your home, feeling like you’d made it.

Sure, Art was handsome, and you’d lived the past decade harboring a massive celebrity crush on him, but he was married, he was untouchable. Art Donaldson oozed that sweet, devoted husband shtick. Anniversary posts, birthday posts, Valentine’s Day posts, Mother’s Day posts. He had a daughter, he posted about how much he loved being a dad.

You were fine accepting that your fantasies of fucking Art Donaldson were strictly fantasies. But that was before you qualified and had to see him every fucking day.

Art Donaldson, who held open doors for you, who talked to you casually, like he might an old friend. Art, who stood in the long line in the food court with you, ate something he probably shouldn’t have, and asked that you don’t tell Tashi.

And you’d smile conspiratorially, and assure him his secret was safe with you. The implication being that you’d keep that secret, and more. As many as he’d ask you to, really.

You’d see him on a practice court, running drills with his wife, and feel the heat of jealousy in the pit of your stomach. You’d turn away, focus on your own game, practice until your hands were aching and sore.

“Where’s Mrs. Donaldson?” You asked one night after you’d been sexiled and had to sit out in the hallway waiting for your roommate to finish up. Art leaned against the wall, standing tall above you, so you had to crane your neck. You liked that point of view, on your knees looking up at him, you wondered if he liked it too.

“Oh, she’s staying in a very nice, very expensive hotel room with our daughter right now,” he said with a grin. “As soon as my events are done, that’s where I’ll be too.”

“Oh,” you said, bringing an easy smile to your lips. “Well, we’re all glad you’re here now.”

“We?” He questioned.

You gave a coy smile, batting your lashes so sweetly. “Maybe just me.”

There was a strange expression on his face for just a moment. Then he laughed like it was nothing. He wished you a goodnight and good luck in your matches the next morning, and disappeared into his own room.

You medaled in women’s doubles. They published photos of you and your partner biting the silver between your teeth. That same day, Art Donaldson took home gold. You were there to see the very end of his last match— every single collision of racket against ball, every step, every grunt of exertion. Your thighs clenched as you watched, fists balled up in the fabric of your skirt.

You wanted him in a needy, desperate sort of way. Like a groupie for a rock band, or a virgin being sacrificed on a mountaintop. You watched him celebrate with a kiss from Tashi and felt that same need like an open wound. Jealousy was festering in you like a rot.

The dive bar wasn’t what you’d expected. Something Art had found with a quick google search and a few minutes with a translation app. He’d knocked on your door to invite you, wearing the beaming smile of someone on top of the world.

“So you’ll come?” He asked after he told you all about it.

“Mhmm,” you said, heart hammering against your ribs. “I’ll come.”

And there you were— in a dress that hardly qualified as such— standing so close to him that you could smell his expensive cologne. His arm would brush yours, he’d glance over and apologize with a warm hand to your arm. You’d clench your thighs together and peer at him through your lashes. It’s fine, don’t worry about it.

A few of the other players disappeared to play darts, or watch the late night coverage of the other sports still competing. You stuck by Art’s side, happily allowing his attention to fall on you completely.

“I saw parts of your doubles final,” he said finally. He was drinking a brand of beer you’d never seen before— something local, you supposed. “You looked beautiful out there.” Your eyes lit up, and then he added. “The way you were playing, I mean— it was phenomenal.”

“Well, I’m no gold medalist,” you said. You let your hand rest on his arm, and looked up at him. The fingers on your other hand toyed with the edge of the medal, warm from where it had been flush against his chest.

He swallowed. You felt his muscles flex beneath your touch, but he didn’t discourage it. Not one fucking bit.

It wasn’t lost on you that Tashi wasn’t there. Not that it was really her type of venue, from what you had gathered. It wasn’t lost on you that Art Donaldson was at a dive bar, drinking random Brazilian beers, instead of celebrating with his wife, with his daughter. Fuck all those posts on his instagram— if he really was a good husband, a faithful one… that’s the only place he’d want to be.

“I saw your match too. I ran right over after my ceremony to watch,” you confessed. It was hard to concentrate on anything else— you were standing so close to him that you were nearly pressed completely into his body.

His lips twitched in interest. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Mhmm. It was incredible. You were so dominant out there, just taking what was rightfully yours.”

He swallowed again, gravitating closer. Your tits were practically spilling out of your dress— he probably got the perfect eyeful when he eased you closer with a firm hand on your lower back, when he looked down at you through blown pupils.

“You looked so fucking hot out there, Art,” you said, lips brushing against his jawline. “You can’t even imagine how it felt sitting there, watching you win. How turned on I got… how wet.”

Art exhaled a shuddery breath. “Jesus Christ.”

It must’ve been a while since he had someone want him this bad, you thought. Clearly he needed it— needed a pretty, sweet thing to tell him just how much they wanted him. You could be that. You could do that.

“I’m not wearing panties,” you whispered in his ear. His grip on you tightened and you had to suppress a giddy smile. “You can feel if you want. I won’t tell.”

He swore under his breath and glanced around. Everyone was too occupied or drunk to give a shit about what the two of you were up to.

He grabbed your hand, pulled you away into the bathroom. You looked pretty even then, in the flickering lights, sat up on the edge of the sink eagerly awaiting his attention.

When he wrenched your thighs apart, he was greeted by the pretty sight of your glistening cunt— sticky with arousal and need. His hand fit there perfectly, right where you needed it.

“Fuck,” you gasped. His fingers rubbed through your slit— wet and hot and aching for him. Your head fell back, knocking against the dirty mirror. “Want you to use me— whatever you want, just take it.”

And you meant it too. This was your teenage idol— a man you’d touched yourself to the thought of countless times. He owned your body, your sexuality, as much as you did. It was only fair he took from it whatever he pleased.

You watched with hungry eyes as he fumbled with the button of his pants, then shoved them down just enough to free his dick.

Your mouth fucking watered with the need to feel it on your tongue, nudging against the back of your throat. You weren’t opposed to begging— you nearly started before you got it into your hand.

Warm, thick, pulsing. Precum beaded at his tip, so you smeared it around the sensitive head of his cock with your thumb. He groaned, bucked into your fist once, twice before he moved your hand.

“Spread your legs wider for me,” he said, slapping the inside of your thighs. You obeyed wordlessly, spreading yourself out invitingly. He pressed closer, so you felt him rutting his dick against your pussy, coating it in your arousal. “God, you’re so fucking wet.”

The words came out with equal parts disgust and awe. He probably thought you were a slut with the way you were throwing yourself at him. You wished he’d just call you that, spit it in your face.

Your cunt pulsed with need, aching to be filled up finally. The culmination of years of fantasizing. Art pressed himself against your entrance, sinking himself into you with the slow reverence of a man who liked making love.

He buried himself inside of you and had to stop moving to keep from cumming then and there. He was a perfect image of restraint— the way his fingers dimpled the flesh of your hips in a bruising grip.

Art wanted to be a gentleman— to give you time to adjust to the size of him, to ease you into it and let the pleasure be a slow, soft burn. He pulled out nice and easy, slid himself into your wet, throbbing cunt. That was all fine and good, but you knew it was just pretense. You were laid out and wanting, begging for him to use you as his own personal toy.

“I’m not your wife, Art.” You met his gaze, locked your ankles around his waist. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

The first thrust, the first real one, knocked the air from your lungs. That silence didn’t last long— because you got what you wanted— he was really fucking you, bullying his cock into your pussy with the same need and desperation that you felt.

“Jesus Christ, you’ve— fuck— you’ve got no fucking self respect, huh?” He pounded into you, leveraging his grip to pull you against him, really impale you on his dick.

The moan that escaped you was pornographic. If he kept talking to you like that, if he kept fucking you like that, you’d cum.

“You don’t even care, do you? This fucking pussy’s squeezing me so tight— you fucking love this,” His voice was strained, interrupted by groans and pants.

You moaned, eyes rolling back. “Love this,” you echoed. When you looked down, at the sight of him splitting you open, of the ring of creamy arousal circling the base of his dick, you felt dizzy. Like you were standing on top of a tall building and looking down. Sort of out of body, tethered in the present by brutal thrusts into your pussy and the wet, slapping sounds of your bodies joining.

Your fingers moved between your thighs, rubbing needy and insistent at your clit. So close to finishing that you wanted to cry and just ask to start over again, that you’d savor it more a second time.

“Gonna cum,” he groaned suddenly. You felt him start to pull out, to leave. It wasn’t fucking fair.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck— not yet, you didn’t want it to end like that. “I have an IUD,” you lied through your teeth. You used your legs, pulled him closer, deeper. “Just keep going, don’t stop. I’m right there.”

He moaned against your throat— holding you tight, fucking into you with animal need. Your fingers moved against your clit with an insistent need. It didn’t take much to push you over the edge. Your moans so loud that Art had to put his medal between your lips to shut you up.

And you were so pliant— letting him drill into your aching, used cunt, your mouth tasting like metal. You felt his rhythm falter— one, two harsh thrusts that knocked muffled moans from you until he came, painting your insides thick, creamy white.

He stayed buried inside of you for a while— panting, doing his best to catch his breath. You spat out the medal and it fell back against his chest, spit slick and shining. You reached up, ran your fingers along his face, reverently, sweetly. A lock of hair fell into his eyes and you tucked it away with delicate fingers.

When he pulled out, you felt that sinking feeling of loss and jealousy in your chest. He redressed in silence, turned away like he couldn’t stand to look at you, or the mirror. Shame rolled off of him in waves that you wanted to brush away.

It wasn’t bad, you’d assure him. You’re a tennis star, you’re the greatest in the world. You should have whatever you want, whenever you want it.

But you didn’t say that. You just tidied yourself up as best as you could and slipped back out into the bar. If anyone noticed, they said nothing.

[s-brant]

Three’s Company

When Patrick visits his best friend at Stanford University, Art’s new fling finds herself stuck between two very attractive men.

9k (18+)

Warnings: smut, threesome, unprotected p in v, double penetration, oral sex (fem receiving), fingering, they’re all pervs, and strong language.

-

The room is stiflingly hot.

There is no air conditioning in her study/fuck buddy's dorm to keep up with the late April heat that has descended upon Stanford's campus so quickly. Three different fans are plugged into outlets around the cramped living space, yet it does little to keep her body cool enough to feel comfortable.

Sleeping with Art was an impulsive decision. The first time was merely weeks ago after he politely asked if she would share her notes from a class he was absent from. They exchanged numbers to organize the meeting, and she ended up talking to him for the better part of an hour in the dining hall. Although she did not recognize it as flirting—the oblivious little thing she is—he shyly commented on seeing her at one of her gymnastics competitions and refused to let her get dinner with her meal credits. Looking back, his intentions should have been obvious to her, yet she does not think badly of him over it. If anything, she likes how wanted he made her feel. He knew what he wanted and ensured that he got it.

They came back to his room to study—only to study, he claimed with his hands held up to proclaim his innocence—for their approaching final exams.

"Good," she said with a teasing lilt to her voice, slinging her bag onto her shoulder and turning to walk in the direction of his dorm building. "Cause it's way too hot to be doing anything else."

They were both laughing as he set down his racquet bag to unlock the door. It was muffled through the wall, but Patrick heard it just fine from where he was perched on the foot of Art's bed with Tears for Fears playing on the unlabeled CD he dug through desk drawers to find. The sound of a distinctly feminine giggle made his mouth turn up at the corners in a smirk. This will be fun to tease his closest friend over until his cheeks flush pink and he has to hide his face in his shirt.

When the door swung open, the laughter died out as soon as they realized they weren't alone, but it was quickly replaced with wide smiles and warm greetings.

Patrick tried not to look her up and down so blatantly. Instead, he chuckled and said, "Art, you conveniently left out that you had a girlfriend on our last call."

To this, Art set down his bag and tackled him onto the bed, starting a minute-long wrestling match that only ended when they began to sweat from the heat and physical activity. It was then that Art remembered to have manners and introduced her. He scrambled to sit upright on the mattress and met her curious gaze.

"Y/N, this is Patrick. I'm sorry, I forgot what day he was coming."

She smiled.

"It's nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you." A pause, and then she turned her attention to Art. "Do you wanna study another time? I don't wanna intrude or anything."

Before Art could open his mouth to tell her to stay, Patrick aimed one of his charming grins at her, then said, "No, please intrude. I'll just hang out. You won't even know I'm here."

The last sentence caused a disbelieving scoff to leave Art’s lips.

As of right now, as she sits on the chair in front of the desk and the boys share the bed, they have gotten halfway through the study guide they meticulously constructed after one of the two classes they share, but it grew boring once an hour and a half passed. They typically end up getting distracted and make out by now, but with Patrick here, neither of them considers that an option. So, she suggests they take a half-hour break to sit, drink, and talk to allow their brains to decompress from the constant stimulation.

He already had a few beers inside the mini fridge beneath his desk, along with a hard seltzer for her seeing that she finds the taste of beer disgusting but quite enjoys being drunk with him. Also kept in the freezer section of the fridge is a pack of ice pops she bought a few days ago when the heat wave began. They prove to be very useful right now as the midday sun bakes the building alive despite the closed curtains and blowing fans.

The CD has moved onto Nine Inch Nails, and she remains quiet to hear it over the sound of the fans as she holds a red ice pop to the side of her neck to cool herself off. Sometime along the way, both of them had stripped down to their underwear after asking her if it was alright because it was so hot. Patrick joked that he was alright with her taking her clothes off too, which she laughed at while Art playfully shoved him over it. Yet now she isn't laughing. Her small exercise shorts are as forgiving as any item of clothing could be in these circumstances, but the long-sleeve shirt she wore because it was the only clean one left is sticking to her skin.

"So, how did you and Art meet?"

Her eyes open to find Patrick glancing back and forth between them.

"It's a boring story, actually," she says. "He asked if I took notes for a class he missed, and now he's stuck with me all the time."

"No, no, okay, maybe it was boring from her perspective, but I was trying to work up the nerve to talk to her for at least a week before then. I went to one of her competitions and recognized her from class," Art explains. "She won, which wasn't surprising at all."

Although she already knew this, this is the first time he has admitted to it out loud, and her stomach flutters at the idea of him becoming so enamored with her from one glance. The popsicle is sweet on her tastebuds when she raises it to her lips and sucks with her eyes looking between them both. As she expected, Patrick shifts a little in place and looks away for reasons not at all related to how she was looking at them while sucking her popsicle.

She chuckles.

"So, you were just interested in befriending me 'cause I win a lot?"

Her tone of voice is taunting, but they know it's all in good fun. Art is quick to play along, shrugging his shoulders to feign aloofness and taking a quick swig of his beer before responding. Their eye contact grows intense in the seconds before he speaks.

"Well, there were some other contributing factors."

"Mm," Patrick hums in agreement. "I've never seen you compete, but you are really hot, so Art's right about that."

This makes her pause for a second, her gaze shifting to find Art's to see if his friend crossed any lines, but he appears strangely calm about it. What she doesn't know is that he has never had any problem sharing, at least, not with Patrick. They shared a room in boarding school, jerked off together to the same girl, and shared the court together—what was his would always be Patrick's, and what was Patrick's would always be his.

"You're flirting with me right in front of him?"

Art interjects, "I'd be shocked if he didn't."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he's standing up from the bed to get another beer. The dorm room is small, so it only takes a few strides for him to meet her where she sits before the desk and kneels down to open the mini fridge. His left hand braces itself on one of her thighs while the right swings open the fridge door only to find there is no beer left. Rather than complain, he simply grabs one of her least favorite hard seltzer flavors and gives her thigh a firm squeeze before standing up.

The bed creaks beneath his weight when he sits back down on it.

He settles into a comfortable position with his back against the wall and legs spread, balancing the seltzer can on his bent knee. Patrick sits close to him, and she finds it difficult to peel her eyes off the pair of them in their current state of undress. Her gaze mostly lingers on Patrick seeing that she has already explored every inch of Art's lean body in the plentiful amount of times they've hooked up over the past few weeks. But, that being said, she cannot resist looking at Art either. Having two beautiful men laid out before her in their underwear is a treat she never expected to indulge in today. They each have the strong, masculine figures of athletes—showing mostly in their shoulders, biceps, abdomen, and thighs.

When Patrick notices her staring, she turns her gaze to the floor to avoid the embarrassment of being caught. If he did catch her, though, he doesn't call her out for it. Not yet, at least.

With one last bite of her popsicle, she stands from the desk chair to toss it into the small trash can beside his nightstand. It isn't until she lets it go that she realizes how close she now stands to the two of them. Only a foot or so from the bed, her heart begins to hammer in her chest at the proximity.

The way she sees it, she has two options. The first would be to retreat to the desk to let her long-sleeved shirt give her heatstroke while the men get to sit in front of the oscillating fans with their shirts off, or she can strip down to her undergarments and join them on the bed. Needless to say, she opts for the latter of the two.

Y/N lets out an exaggerated groan at the heat and fans herself with her hands for the sake of appearing somewhat innocent in what she's about to do, then reaches down for the hem of her shirt with a huff.

Art and Patrick can do nothing but watch with rapt attention side by side as she pulls the fabric up her torso and over her head. The shirt ends up falling to the floor beside her feet alongside their discarded t-shirts and pants. This leaves her in her most comfortable bra—which is Art's favorite since her nipples can be seen through the mesh material—and a pair of tiny spandex shorts.

Patrick's tongue darts out to wet his lips at the sight of her—almost angelic in her beauty—and tries to burn the image into his mind to hold onto forever. Definitely going in the spank bank, he thinks to himself as his cock begins to harden in his boxers. Beside him, Art has been stunned to silence. Even though they've fucked like rabbits since the first time, he isn't sure if he'll ever get used to seeing her like this. Those shorts hug the delicate curve of her hips, as well as that lovely ass that has been sculpted from years of training as a gymnast, and all he can think of is how badly he wants to take them off.

They sit there, dumbfounded, with their mouths hanging open just enough for her to notice and suppress an arrogant smirk. But to allow herself to smirk would be to reveal her cards, and she doesn't want them to see this as anything other than her innocently trying to cool down. Truth be told, she hasn't thought this through. It's not as though she planned this as she was sitting at the desk. It's more of an impulsive, irresistible urge. And if they will tease her so blatantly with their half-naked bodies, she is entitled to do the same.

"You," she says, jutting her chin in Patrick's direction. "Scoot. I wanna sit in front of the fans too."

Underneath it all, she's thankful that she took the time to do her hair the way that makes her feel the most confident and put a little makeup on. Not that either of them is focused on her damned makeup. No, they're far too busy ogling her figure to notice anything north of her collarbones.

After a delayed second of staring, what she said seems to register within him and spark him into action. He's quick to scoot closer to the end of the bed if it means she'll be inhabiting the small space between them. 

She offers a quiet, "Thank you," and crawls onto the bed, turning around and settling into place with her back against the wall. The cool air generated by the fans blows faintly against the front of her sweat-slick chest, and she can't help but shut her eyes and hum in appreciation of it.

With her eyes shut, Art and Patrick are both scrambling to quietly conceal their growing erections. If they don't, it'll be glaringly obvious when she opens her eyes and sees a tent in their underwear on either side of her. Although the life-long friends don't speak, there's an understanding formed between the two of them. Whatever she allows them to have of her tonight, if she allows anything, they'll share nicely. Patrick knows that if anything happens, he is to assume it is a one-time thing unless she or Art expresses a desire for an arrangement of some sort to be made.

Her eyes open again a few seconds later to find them staring at her.

Breaking the silence, she asks, turning her head left to right to address each of them, "Did your mothers never tell you it's rude to stare?"

Patrick doesn't miss a beat.

"Did you know it's rude to be a tease?"

The sound of Art sucking in a deep breath meets her ears, but she doesn't look away from Patrick. Their eyes are locked, and she can see the mischief present in his. It's almost as if he dares her to do something...like he knows that she wants him just as badly as he wants her. Part of her feels guilty, feeling like she should remain loyal to Art even though they aren't exclusive, but a much more dominant part of her desires it too much to resist the temptation.

"Patrick, don't pressure her. If she doesn't want to—"

Her head turning to look at him halts him in his tracks. The look she's giving him...

Much to his shock, she was a virgin when they met a few weeks ago. He questioned her relentlessly, claiming there was no way someone as beautiful, smart, and talented as her could've gone so long without doing it, but she held firm. It was the truth, he realized after she sheepishly relayed the story of how she made out with a basketball player on Halloween and wimped out before it could go further. That first night, she was a bashful, blushing little thing. He treated her with the tenderness and reverence she deserved, first making her come with his tongue and fingers before fucking her. It was so...intimate. Her nails dug into his shoulders when he made that first, breathtaking thrust into her. Just the thought of it was enough to get him hard the next day, but he knew not to expect anything after how shy she was the previous night. Little did he know, he awakened something within her, and from then on, she would be insatiable.

He almost got whiplash from how quickly she changed from a nervous, flushed-faced girl asking him, "Am I doing this right?" when she got on top to a cock-hungry temptress ready to jump onto him at any moment. Truth be told, he found it so fucking hot. To think that he was the catalyst for this behavior was beyond comprehension. Though Art did well enough in his dating life, Patrick was the one that the girls they liked gravitated toward when they were in school together. But she was his, and he thinks, even now, that he'll always have the satisfaction of having gotten to her first no matter what happens tonight.

Y/N shifts around on the mattress so that she's sitting on the side of the bed opposite the wall, facing them with her hands on her knees and legs tucked beneath her ass. Both boys perk up a little at this, and they watch every minute movement she makes and listen to every breath she breathes with unwavering focus.

She meets Art's gaze first before doing anything. Her brows raise in question, and, in answer, he gives her a slight nod. Those pretty, cherry-stained lips of hers curve into a smirk she doesn't even bother to hide in response to this.

"Have you ever fucked the same girl before?" she asks out of pure curiosity, her tone calm and even. Her hands leave her knees to grab one of their thighs each, slowly rubbing up and down to allow her fingertips to brush the edge of their boxers. "Two guys at the same time is a first for me..."

To say that they are in a state of shock would be a gross understatement. Surprisingly, their mouths are not hanging open, and they aren't drooling at the mere thought of what she's proposing.

Somehow, Patrick finds his voice and says, "No." A second of pause, then—"Is this for real? Like you're not just fucking with us?"

The silence that follows is ripe with tension. All that can be heard is the sound of voices passing in the hallway outside of the dorm room and fans blowing on their highest setting. The hands on their thighs come to a halt at the edge of their boxers, and the softened expression on her face shifts into one of unabashed lust as she looks at Patrick.

In answer to his question, she starts to crawl over to him. Seeing that the mattress is a twin, it doesn't take too long for her to reach him and settle into place on top of him. Her hands slide up to cup his face, forcing him to only look at her when she lowers herself onto his lap. The spandex shorts hugging every inch of her figure do little to keep him from feeling the warmth of her cunt against the bulge that formed the second she took her top off.

That first brush of her lips against his is gentle, as though she has him under a trance, but it doesn't take longer than a few seconds for him to snap out of it. Patrick's hands grasp her hips first to keep her from moving away, then they slide down to knead the soft, supple flesh of her ass as he begins to kiss her back hungrily. The kiss quickly begins to descend from her lips to her jaw until he reaches the soft skin of her neck.

While he nips and sucks at the sensitive spot along the side of her neck, Y/N opens her eyes to find Art staring, unblinking, at the pornographic display before him. The sight of him alone—between his messy blonde hair, piercing eyes, and masterfully structured face—is enough to pull a breathy moan from the back of her throat. One would think that she would get used to the way he makes her feel when he looks at her like that, but she never does.

One of the arms wrapped around Patrick's neck uncurls itself to reach for Art, fingers wiggling to beckon him to her. 

He's already invading her space by the time she whispers, "C'mere, baby."

Art practically melts into the two writhing bodies he kneels beside at the casual use of a pet name from her. The word echoes in the farthest reaches of his brain until it is all he can hear on a loop. Even as she grips the back of his neck and pulls him until their mouths collide, his cock twitches from the memory of her calling him baby.

Patrick continues to suck, lick, nip, and kiss his way down her neck as she slips her tongue into Art's mouth with a groan. He leaves marks behind everywhere he goes with the thought of his friend finding them on her for the next week and a half in mind. It only makes it more thrilling for him to imagine the strange mixture of frustration and arousal that will arise within Art when he rediscovers them the next time they hook up.

Slowly, she is guided onto her back by his mouth slipping down to take one of her nipples into it and his callused hands peeling her shorts, along with her soaked cotton thong, down over the swell of her ass. The freshly washed sheets are soft against her bare back as she lays back and watches Patrick worship her breasts with both his mouth and hands. In the midst of their repositioning, Art took it upon himself to squeeze into the cramped space next to Patrick, slotting himself between him and the wall the bed is pressed against. Without a word of warning, he dips his face down to kiss the breast Patrick is cupping in his hand.

She feels hands everywhere, unsure of which belongs to who. Hands grapple for purchase on her hips, her waist, her breasts, her thighs, and her ass—always moving in search of new territory to claim. Although they have no way of coordinating their actions, they seem to move in sync with one another. The second Art's mouth lowers to kiss down her stomach, which flinches inward at the feeling, Patrick follows. If she weren't so overwhelmed with everything right now, she'd likely laugh at how eager they are to race each other down the length of her body.

Their heads bump every few seconds by the time they reach her parted thighs, but they are too focused on getting a taste of her to care at first. They work with the same synchronized harmony they once had as doubles partners, Art tugging her left leg over his shoulder while Patrick shoves her right up and out until her thigh is flush with her chest. She can't help but silently thank her parents for enrolling her in gymnastics lessons years ago. If they hadn't, this would be a tad uncomfortable.

Finally, Patrick tries to shove Art to the side a little, complaining, "Come on, man, you're with her all the time."

To her surprise, it works for the first moment or so. Art places hot, open-mouthed kisses on her inner thigh as Patrick's tongue makes a broad stroke through her, but it isn't long before he grows dissatisfied with his current role in this impromptu threesome and decides to fight back. He doesn't shove or push like Patrick had, instead, he gently nudges his head against Patrick's until they can share her.

Having Art go down on her alone always feels pleasurable, but having both of their mouths on her at the same time is another sensation entirely. It's indescribable. Spit drools from their lips as they kiss her sodden cunt, taking turns flicking the tips of their tongues against her clit for the sake of hearing her moan over and over. From where she looks down at them, they're nearly kissing each other as they eat her out, and she has to tip her head back onto her shoulders to keep them from seeing her smirk.

When she looks back down, she makes a breathy, gasping sound at the sight of them. Patrick is looking up at her with an intensity no man has ever had when looking at her, not even Art, and there is no ignoring the feeling it stirs in the pit of her abdomen.

"Fuck," she whines and pushes herself harder against their faces, but it's never enough. "More—I need more. Please."

Neither one hesitates. In fact, they seem to form a plan without speaking it aloud. As Art's free hand raises from where it palmed his cock through his boxers, Patrick's lips close around her sensitive, puffy clit and start to suck. The tips of Art's middle and ring fingers brush tentatively against her hole, then, teasingly slow, push inside until they're buried knuckle deep.

The contrast of the men as lovers—Patrick being unforgiving and passionate, Art being tender and desperate—threatens to dizzy her. But Art cannot control himself for too long. He often starts slow and gentle, his eyes flooded with genuine affection for whoever is pinned under his body, then loses his composure the farther things go. By the time he's inside of her, he's almost brutal in how hard he fucks her, and it isn't out of malice, it's out of animalistic lust.

So, as per usual, the pace Art sets to begin with shifts into something harder and faster.

Over the sounds of the fans and music playing on the CD player across the room, a symphony of panting breaths, whines, and wet noises can be heard. It wouldn't surprise any of them if the people who were talking in the hallway could hear it, but it's not like they care right now. 

When she closes her eyes and tries to fall back against the mattress, Patrick stops for a second to murmur, "Don't look away," before getting back to work. Something about the way his voice sounds forces her to submit to his demand without hesitation. There's an edge to it. An underlying promise that he will stop and leave her here to suffer if she doesn't listen, so she does. She watches with a slack-jawed expression at how they work diligently to get her off.

The combined sensations of the fingers pumping into her at a steady, rushed pace and the lips enclosed around her sensitive bud push her closer and closer to the edge of oblivion. Art slips a third finger in and licks between her sticky folds as Patrick sucks her clit relentlessly. Everything they do is motivated by a dire need to take as much of her as they can, as though they can't quite believe what's happening and want to savor it before they wake from the dream. Seeing their desperation only fuels the fire roaring to life inside of her.

They feast on her the way starving men would if presented with food—humming and groaning in satisfaction at the taste of her on their tongues. Through the haze she's fallen under as a result of the present situation, her gaze lifts from where both of their faces are smushed together between her parted thighs to find that they're both humping the mattress. It seems like they don't even realize they're doing it, which, of course, only makes it hotter for her. To think that she wields enough power over them, that she renders them so useless and needy...

Her brows pinch together at the feeling of Art's fingertips finding the sweet spot inside of her.

"Right there," she breathes out in a shaky voice, hand shooting down to grasp anything she can find for support.

It ends up being Patrick's dark hair that is weaved between her fingers and used as her lifeline, tugging nearly every time Art's fingertips find the spot inside of her that makes her throw her head back on the bed and cry out for them. If they didn't have her pinned down, her hips would be lifting to meet every thrust, but she cannot do anything other than take it. Every breath she takes turns rapid, her chest rising and falling dramatically, as the familiar feeling of her impending release grows nearer by the second.

She says, half warning and half pleading with them, "I'm"—The sentence is cut off before it can be said by a high-pitched moan that makes Patrick moan and Art whimper into her—"Please"—What she's pleading for, none of them know, herself included, but she continues to babble nonsensically anyway—"Ah!"

The hand that isn't pulling on Patrick's hair reaches down instinctively for the hand Art grips her thigh with, and she doesn't even need to ask him for it. He entwines their fingers and allows her to squeeze his hand until circulation is lost as she finally feels the wave that was building within her begin to crest.

It hits her harder than she ever knew it could. 

Everything explodes into a sensation of bliss so strong, she loses herself in it. The only thing tying her body down to the earth is the feeling of the hands on her—touching her, fingering her, caressing her, and holding her hand—yet even that is not enough to keep her from floating away into another world entirely for the first few seconds of her orgasm. The muscles in her legs, so exhausted from being forced into a position like this, shake violently with every wave of pleasure rushing through her, and her walls clamp down around the fingers thrusting into her.

If she could live forever in these fifteen seconds, she would, but it soon becomes obvious to her that there's no chance of that happening. Gradually, the intense sensation starts to recede like the tides, and they are both there to help her ride it out to the very end. But once it fully fades, she wriggles beneath them in sensitivity.

Using the hand wrapped up in his hair, Y/N pulls Patrick's mouth away from her clit with a strength he didn't know to expect despite her obvious athletic background, and when Art notices this, he too slows the rhythmic pumping of his fingers inside of her throbbing heat to a stop. Wary of hurting her, he waits another five seconds before slowly pulling them out.

She has gone boneless where she lays on her back with her eyes shut and chest heaving for air.

Knowing she cannot see them, Patrick cuts his best friend a look and jerks his chin in her direction in a silent urging to check on her. Both men start to move at the same time, crawling over her until they reach her face. While Patrick lies beside her and trails his hand up and down her naked, sweat-soaked torso to occupy himself in the time it takes her to recover, Art licks her arousal from his fingers before grabbing her by the chin.

He asks with a teasing inflection, "You still with us?"

Her eyes slowly open to find them both staring at her, and she cannot help the slight smile that comes to her face at this.

"You guys almost killed me," she murmurs. "I think my vision got spotty for a second there."

They allow her another moment to catch her breath and recuperate in the aftermath of what she endured. She takes turns looking at them as she pants for air, laying with her arms above her head and thighs squeezed together due to her current state of sensitivity.

Patrick is the first to break the silence.

"We're not done with you," he says softly, the hand on her chest climbing up until it cradles the side of her neck. "But you know that, don't you?"

"I'd be a little bummed if you were," she replies.

Her head is whipping around at the sound of Art's voice.

"Only a little?"

She pushes herself up from where she's lying supine on the bed, which is now a mess of tangled sheets and sweat, to smack him on the arm. It's all in good fun, of course, and Art is hardly hurt by the playful blow she landed on him. Giggles escape her mouth as they begin to play fight, swatting and trying to pin one another down with Patrick there to spectate. He encourages Y/N to fight dirty, telling her where to strike, which causes Art to curse under his breath and declare him a traitor.

It ultimately ends with her on top, her legs straddling his hips and hands pinning his wrists to the bed. Based on the faraway, longing gleam in his eyes as he looks up at her, Patrick can tell immediately that she only won because Art allowed her to. Because there is something about being pinned to the bed underneath her that turns him on. And she knows it. It's easy to tell by how his erection presses up against her naked center through the fabric of his boxers.

Suddenly, she comes up onto her knees and moves back until she's hovering over his thighs. Her next words are a soft-spoked explanation for why she's reaching for the waistband of his boxers.

"Too much clothes."

But, to her surprise, another pair of hands comes to her aid in shimmying Art's underwear down his hips and legs. The way Patrick sees it, the sooner he helps her get them off, the sooner she'll take his off. And he isn't wrong. As soon as they get the boxers free from Art's body, the garment is tossed to the side without a care in the world. Neither of them looks to see where they landed, they're far too busy leaning in to kiss each other than keep track of their discarded clothing.

Her left hand is wrapped around Art's cock, pumping at a torturously slow pace, as she pulls away from Patrick with a string of saliva connecting their lips.

"Take those off," she says with a pointed look at his crotch.

To say he is sent scrambling to take off his underwear at her command would be an understatement. If this scenario itself wasn't hot enough to make her cunt throb with a desperate need to be fucked, she'd be giggling at his eagerness. But it's hard to find anything funny when she's faced with Patrick standing, one foot on the floor and his other leg braced against the bed at the knee, with nothing to conceal him from her anymore.

It must inflate his ego to heights it has never reached before to see her tongue dart out to wet her lips at the sight of him. The hand stroking Art falters as she admires Patrick's cock. It's about an inch longer than Art's yet equal in girth, curving up a little toward his hair-speckled, defined abdomen. A drop of precome has dripped from his tip, and she has to dip her head forward to get a quick taste. Those pretty lips wrap around him, not pushing down to take the rest of his shaft into her mouth but remaining where she is, flicking her tongue against the slit where the drops of sticky, pearlescent fluid secrete.

A taste is all she allows herself, though.

Her lips pull off of him with a soft popping sound, and she makes sure to maintain eye contact with him as she licks a drop of pre-come off of her top lip.

She turns to look at Art, then Patrick, then back at Art, asking, "How do you want me?"

Seeing that she was a virgin before she started seeing Art, she figures she isn't qualified to direct this in a way that'll be comfortable for everyone involved. No, if she had to bet, Patrick has the most experience between the three of them—with Art following closely behind—and he will have no problem taking control from here based on how he has acted thus far.

To their surprise, it's Art who answers first. 

Patrick was still in a faraway daze from having her mouth around his cock only to be kicked when he was down by the question she asked. How do you want me? God, it's like she's trying to kill them.

"On my lap."

Art pushes himself up from the mattress and repositions so he sits on his knees in front of them, reaching for her hips to pull her closer without a second of hesitation. Her arms instantly reach for his shoulders to steady herself as she maneuvers into the exact position he had in mind. Buried beneath the music that has become white noise to them and the fans running on their highest setting, he thinks he hears her breath hitch in her throat once she's straddling his lap, the tip of his cock nudging against her clit.

Absentmindedly, she starts to grind against him, coating him in the slick arousal that seeps from her, but it's slow. A tease compared to what's coming next.

"Patrick," he says, his voice unwavering despite the excitement that makes his stomach churn. His hand slides down from her neck, caressing her breast as it passes by at a lazy speed, until he takes hold of himself and pumps a few times—as if he isn't hard as a fucking rock already. Over her shoulder, he meets his friend's intense stare. "If you wanna fuck her, you should probably get on the bed."

And while he would usually fire back something equally witty or taunting, Patrick cannot manage to do anything but nod. There's something about seeing Art this way that subdues him. He would like to think that the sole reason he's standing naked in front of his best friend is because there's a girl involved, but that isn't true. Not completely. Although Art would never admit to himself that he feels the same way, there's something familiar about this. Comfortable. Right.

The mattress dips with Patrick's shifting weight, squeaking a little beneath his knees until he settles into place behind her. His chest presses against her back, and his hand reaches up to grab her jaw, guiding her head to tilt so he can kiss her neck while Art lines himself up with her. She feels Patrick's cock pressing against her ass as the broad tip of Art's sinks inside of her.

Having Patrick's face buried in her neck, her shoulder, and back to her neck again provided her and Art a rare second of private intimacy. Her eyes, glazed over with lust, lock into his and refuse to look away. The intensity present in his gaze does not frighten her. If anything, it sends a rush of adrenaline through her body, and she takes a second to admire his soft, wide eyes. She's never mentioned it aloud before, but she has always been fascinated with making eye contact with him due to his right eye. Half of the iris is a striking, clear shade of blue while the other is a warm brown hue.

"Fuck," he says under his breath at the feeling of her squeezing down around him, her tight cunt resisting a little until she relaxes and sinks down until there's nothing left to take.

There's nothing that compares to the feeling of the first thrust he makes.

Every time, it makes her bite her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. To feel him so deep is almost undoing in itself. Then she feels another hand slide between her legs, and her mind goes utterly blank. Everything outside of this room falls away the second Patrick starts to rub her clit in gentle, languid circles to help her adjust to the stretch of Art inside of her. Patrick's lips lavish every accessible inch of her bare skin with kisses as his friend, with a hand on each of her hips, starts to lift her up and down at an unhurried pace.

Their noses and lips brush without completely touching. When she pushes her face closer to Art's, hoping to lock lips with him, he pulls away for the sake of seeing her grow hot in the face from embarrassment. The mouth worshipping the back of her neck curves up into a smirk in reaction to the games Art plays with her. Who knew he's just as fun in bed as he is out of it? Certainly not Patrick.

She mutters, voice breathy and weak, "Feels so good..."

"Yeah?" Patrick murmurs into her skin and presses his fingers hard against her clit. "Tell me how he feels."

If he could see her the way Art can right now, he'd have to suppress a chuckle at how her brows pinch together at the command. Regardless of her sudden shyness, the words he says only make her ride Art harder. Over her shoulder, Patrick searches for those pale blue eyes only to find them staring through him already. Every smooth rocking motion of her hips pushes her ass against his neglected erection, providing him with a brushing touch before pivoting away again.

"He feels"—she says, chest rising and falling faster—"He's so hard." Her sentences are hardly coherent. "Perfect—mmm—fucking me so deep." One of her hands reaches to tug his down to press it against the southernmost part of her abdomen. "Feel."

With her palm molded over the back of his hand and forcing him to push down on her belly, Patrick can hardly keep from groaning at the subtle bulge of Art's cock moving in and out of her. It's strangely intimate for the three of them to share this experience, but for him to feel every thrust through her is more than he anticipated.

Unable to fight what instinct drives him to, Patrick shifts his hips until the angle of her grinding against him allows his tip to brush up against the hole she and Art have yet to touch. He doesn't do anything more, not without her asking for it, but it's clear to both Art and Y/N that he desperately wants to. All of this physical affection shared between the two of them has made Patrick needy and jealous, so she decides to grant him mercy.

She reaches behind herself blindly to guide him elsewhere, nudging him against the hole Art is already filling. It takes them a couple of seconds to understand what she means in doing this, but, once it clicks, they start to go a little crazy. For the moment, she has stopped bouncing on Art's cock for the sake of allowing Patrick to push in beside him, and he has to surge forward to kiss her. If he doesn't distract himself with a kiss, he'll be too tempted to move.

As Art kisses her deeply, his tongue invading her mouth and caressing her own, Patrick's hand wraps around her throat for leverage with his teeth nipping at her earlobe. His hand wraps around where hers grips his cock to guide it to her entrance, and with his help, they manage to squeeze the tip in.

Her jaw drops at the overwhelming sensation, and the sloppy kiss is interrupted when her head rolls back onto Patrick's shoulder. Art doesn't seem to care, though. Now that her head is tipped back, her neck is exposed for him to mark, and he takes advantage of the opportunity as soon as it presents itself. His lips brush against Patrick's fingers a few times as he kisses her fervently, sucking hard on the delicate skin that has already been bruised by his dear friend.

"You're beautiful," Art whispers into her neck between kisses. "So, so beautiful."

Taking it slow for her sake, Patrick has to force himself into her inch by inch, stretching her little cunt to take far more than she's accustomed to. But, as hard as it is, it works. After another few moments of him pushing in and pausing to let her adjust, he finally bottoms out with his cock flush against Art's. Her walls clamp down around them tightly. They both share a nervous look at this, wondering if they'll manage to last longer than thirty seconds if it already feels this good.

Slowly, she raises her head from where it slumped against Patrick's shoulder and meets Art's intense stare with one of her own. His hand raises to cup the side of her face, his fingers grazing against Patrick's, and he brushes his thumb over her kiss-swollen bottom lip. Every breath taken between the three of them is labored.

Pulling her lip down with his thumb, he asks, "Feeling okay?"

A half-second later, Patrick chimes in.

"If it's too much, you have to tell us."

Not a question, not a request, but a demand. The way he said it left no room for debate, so she nods in compliance and responds with an eagerness that neither man can miss, "M'fine, please, just fuck me..."

Patrick does not need to be told twice.

Having been sidelined for too long and forced to watch them fuck without him, he pulls out slowly, then cants his hips back against her ass with a force that takes her breath away. Amidst this, Art cannot do anything but let his face fall forward into her chest and whine in ecstasy. Just the movement of Patrick's cock rubbing against his with every thrust renders him useless. He knew it would feel better than any sex he'd had before, but this...He'll likely spend the rest of his life chasing the hedonism they are experiencing tonight.

One of her arms reaches behind her to grab Patrick's hip and dig her nails in hard while the other closes around Art's neck to pull both of them as close as can be. And now that he has forced himself back from the edge of a premature release, Art begins to move too, searching for a rhythm that feels right. Soon enough, he manages to find it. Both of their heads lift to look at each other, faces inches apart with their chins pressing on her shoulder, and they work with the same synchronicity they had while eating her out not even fifteen minutes ago.

She turns her head to the side to watch their stare-down as they rut into her like feral animals—utterly insatiable and overcome by their baser instincts. And it's only now that it occurs to her that, underneath it all, they want each other as desperately and pathetically as they want her. Patrick's gaze relentlessly bounces back and forth between Art's eyes and lips, and it makes her smirk to herself. The pleasure of fucking her as one, their pulsing cocks rubbing together in the warm walls of her cunt, has lowered their inhibitions, and the idea of being intimate with one another isn't as daunting as it would be if they were fully aware.

Leaning in to brush her cherry-flavored lips against Art's ear, she whispers, "I want you to kiss him."

The arm looped around the back of his neck pulls tighter in encouragement, bringing his body so close to hers that she can feel his ribs expanding with every breath. His only reaction to her request is a quick glance at her face once she pulls away from his ear with a sensuous lick as a parting gift. It's almost as though he doesn't believe what she's saying, but the reassuring expression she wears tells him that it is real. She truly wants him to see him kiss his best friend, not only for their enjoyment but hers as well.

One second, he's looking at her, and the next, he's slotting his lips against Patrick's with a passion previously only reserved for her. Their hands both grapple for purchase on her sweat-slick body, Art aggressively kneading her breasts and Patrick squeezing her hips for dear life, as they moan into each other's mouths.

As they kiss each other hungrily, Y/N has nothing left to do but bask in the tension swelling inside of her. There's something about how wrong this situation feels to her that makes it so much more arousing. Girls are always raised with the idea that promiscuity lessens their value, and she was not an exception. Having been raised in a family of devout believers, she hadn't kissed a boy until she was seventeen years old. The next person she kissed was Art, and in the time since their first kiss, he has thoroughly corrupted her.

And even as distracted as he is by the all-consuming, wet kiss he's engaged in, Art feels her cunt start to squeeze around their cocks and immediately drops one of the hands on her breasts between her splayed thighs. His finger rubs in tight circles on her clit in hopes that she will reach her end before he and Patrick come pathetically soon.

Her body jerks where it's trapped between them when his fingers make contact, pulling their focus away from each other for the first time since their lips touched. Patrick reaches up to hold her neck in one hand and forces her face to the side so both of them can look at every subtle expression she makes. 

"Don't stop," she pleads, eyes glazed over. "M'so close, Art"—Every merciless thrust elicits a high-pitched whine from her—"Patrick, please!"

The body trapped between them has gone boneless and twitchy, utterly useless at holding herself up or aiding them in any way. But they wear it like a badge of honor. With her face falling forward into Art's neck, she loses her grasp on all that is around her and lets them prop her up to fuck her like a toy existing solely for their gratification.

With one hand cradling the back of her head and the other between her thighs, still dutifully rubbing her clit, Art asks under his breath, "Isn't she fucking perfect?"

Although it was a question meant for Patrick, she can't help how she moans and clenches her walls around them when she hears it. Panting breaths from the three of them flood the sweltering dorm room, but they are too far gone to notice or care how much sweat drips off of their bodies onto one another. It's almost hard to get a firm grip on her as a result of it, but they manage to keep her in place by smushing their bodies as close as physically possible on both sides of her.

Patrick bucks his hips up into her with a recklessness that gives away how close he is to his climax.

He says, "Oh, God, yeah." The hand still collaring her delicate neck squeezes just enough to take her breath away for a second. However, once he released his hold on her, that hand moved to wrap itself up the roots of her hair. "Best pussy I've ever had. So fucking tight, it's like she wants us to come inside her." A pause, then, "Is that what you want?"

A second passes of silence from her, and he sharply tugs back on her hair until her face is no longer hidden in Art's neck. This allows them to drink in the sight of her—face twisted up in pleasure and mouth gaping open.

He asks again, "Is that what you want?"

Her response is immediate.

"Yes, yes, yes," she murmurs incoherently and takes quick turns to look between their faces. If the expressions they wear are any indication, it won't be long before her wish is fulfilled. "I'm—mmm-gonna come! I need you to fill me up, please, please!"

To this, Art rubs her clit faster while maintaining eye contact with her and finally lets go of whatever remaining scraps of self-control he has left. Knowing how close she is pushes them closer themselves, and they start to pound her hard. Hard enough that even they, as soon-to-be professional athletes, have difficulty sustaining this intense degree of exertion.

The arm that she looped around his shoulders is still there, but now her hand is sliding down from the back of Art's neck to explore the toned musculature of his upper back. Under her searching palm, she can feel his muscles contracting and relaxing beneath his pale skin.

To both her and Art's surprise, the world begins to shift in their peripheral vision until he falls flat against the mattress on his back with his length still sheathed inside of her. It takes a second for their brains to catch up with what happened and deem Patrick responsible for the position change. He laid his hands flat on her back and pushed with just the right amount of force to pin Art to the mattress beneath them.

Art says, breathless, "I can feel you squeezing us, baby, just let go."

Hearing those words sets fire to her blood, and that, paired with the toe-curling sensation of them pressing deep inside of her, hitting that spot over and over and over, is what tips her over the edge.

Patrick keeps pulling on her hair to force her head up so that they can feel and watch her come, and what a beautiful sight it is. Art, the lucky bastard, is face to face with her as she tenses up with the onslaught of her climax. But he can see the side of her pretty, flushed face and drink up every little sound she makes, so he doesn't feel left out in any way. No, he is experiencing this right beside Art. They're both trapped inside of her, pumping into her throbbing heat and letting themselves be swept away into oblivion by the feeling of her coming undone.

She digs her nails into Art's skin hard enough to hurt as she whines and writhes between them with each pulse of pleasure that runs through her, and it isn't until she's starting to come down, riding out the high, that she feels them spill into her at the same time. Every sensation attached to it prolongs her orgasm—the throbbing, the spreading warmth, and the dying undulations of their hips that grind their cocks together within her. And beyond the physicality of the act, just knowing that they're filling her to the brim with their come makes her head spin from how fucking hot she finds it.

It isn't long before their thrusts slow into a sensuous grinding as they come down from it together, then come to a full stop to keep from overstimulating themselves. They both are starting to go soft, panting and leaning against her limp body in exhaustion, and know they wouldn't be able to continue even if they wanted to.

Her head is laid on Art’s shoulder with Patrick’s nose nuzzling her neck. There's nothing they can do except remain still and try to recover from the euphoria that has rendered them useless, so that is precisely what they do. With their bodies nearly melting together from the heat, the three of them hold onto each other for support until they manage to return to full consciousness after what they went through.

It isn't until another couple of moments have elapsed that Patrick and Art start murmuring to one another while she remains slumped between them. A second later, both pairs of hands are squeezing her hips; lifting her off of their softening cocks, slowly, gently, and minding her sensitivity.

The three of them collapse side by side on the twin bed, bodies squeezed together like sardines, and she finally comes back down from the clouds her head floated into at the feeling of them touching her. It isn't sexual. No, they wouldn't dream of putting her through anything more than she could handle right now. Both touches are tender and featherlight—Art's hand molds over her breast simply to cup it as they cuddle while Patrick brings her hand up from her side to brush a kiss over her knuckles.

The silence continues to stretch on, then—

"We're definitely gonna have to do that again," she says, turning her head to look at each of them before laying her cheek against Art's shoulder. "That is, if don't mind sharing me."

His gaze softens, the hand cupping her breast ghosting up over her skin until it finds her and Patrick's entwined hands.

"I don't mind one bit."

-

Thank you for reading this! I probably won’t write any more Challengers fics but I saw the movie like five times in theaters and needed to crank this out to satisfy the part of me that is obsessed with the hotel scene. I would really appreciate a comment to let me know what you thought if you’re open to that 🫶🏻 The oral part of this fic was inspired by these two (1) (2) I read, so def give them a read cause they're great!

[dreamcubed]

you need to calm down | theodore nott x reader

song; you need to calm down [taylor swift] pairing; theodore nott x fem!muggle-born!reader genre; e2l, smut, angst word count; 5,9k timeline; subsidiary 8th year warnings; swearing, alcohol consumption, implied drug consumption, hook-up, drunk sex, piv, oral sex (male and female receiving), discrimination (muggle-borns), smoking, violence, blood, mentions of the war, arguments, yelling summary; after returning to hogwarts for a subsidiary 8th year to make up for the loss of 7th year due to the war, you are a completely different person, and muggle-born-hating theo finds himself obsessed with you

masterlist

"stressing and obsessing about somebody else is no fun."

MINORS DNI!!! 18+ content.

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In the time that the Second Wizarding War had been going on, you had been absent from Hogwarts, attending a muggle school under a fake name. Also in that time, you had changed significantly, partially to help your cover, but also because you had made muggle friends with similar styles and decided that you loved it. There were no uniforms at muggle college, so you were able to explore. These days you loved having black hair, having both your septum and nose pierced, and dressing almost entirely in black.

Your witch friends hadn't recognised you when you showed up at the Summer party you had received an invite to, after Voldemort was defeated and you were able to come out of hiding. The party you were attending was for seventh and eighth years— eighth year being introduced as a subsidiary for the education lost last year. Even most of those who had attended seventh year elected to return, as the final exams had never taken place, and what they had learned had been heavily rooted in the dark arts.

The party was booming, the walls of the massive house shaking with the sound of the music. You had consumed your fair share of alcohol, amongst other things, and had enjoyed catching up with everyone you had missed so dearly.

And that was when you saw him watching you.

Theodore Nott, a Slytherin boy in your year, who was from a wealthy pure-blooded family. A cigarette hung from his lips, and the smoke billowing around him sent a shiver up your spine. He was a sexy man, personality aside, and intoxicated you conveniently forgot about his attitude towards muggle-borns. Fuck, maybe he had changed?

He started approaching you, eyes raking up and down your accentuated figure, and he lingered a while on your fishnets. When he was close enough to talk, he said a simple statement, "I've never seen you before."

Theodore Nott hadn't changed. Not one bit. While he had never wished death upon muggle-borns like Voldemort, he had despised them— viewed them as lesser than he. He had seen you, laughing with your friends and seductively moving your hips, and assumed you were from the year below. You knew in that moment that he didn't recognise muggle-born goody-two-shoes Y/N L/N.

But, you were too drunk to ignore the red flags.

"No?" you murmured, "What are your first thoughts?"

He smirked, "I think I'm in for a very interesting night."

You chuckled, "I'll say."

His hands found your hips, and he began swaying with you to the music, which made you move your body closer to his. Even in the warmth of the room, the heat of his body hit you like an electric spark, coursing through you— straight to your core.

He moved even closer, his hot breath fanning against your neck as his hands moved round to your back. Then he lifted his head, his lips close to yours, and you let your eyes flutter shut as the kiss began. It was passionate: a hazy, powerful passion that had every hair on your body standing on end. His hands lowered to your ass, and squeezed, bringing a gasp from your lips, which he took as an opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth.

All of a sudden, he pulled away, only to whisper in your ear, "Wanna find somewhere more private?"

"Lead the way," you said breathlessly, and he took your hand in his.

Neither of you knew whose bedroom you had ended up in, but it was empty and had a lock on the door, so it was ideal. Sure, a little unlocking charm could get someone in, but hopefully they would realise what was going on inside if the door was locked.

Theo wasted no time in pressing his lips to yours again, pushing you back until you fell on to the bed, pulling him with you. He moved down to your neck, kissing and sucking in a manner that would definitely leave hickeys, before he returned to your lips. You tugged at his shirt, and he let you pull it over his head, revealing a toned chest and arms that had you drooling.

He smirked at your loss of composure and beckoned towards your shirt, "Your turn, miss."

This time, you smirked, and held up your arms to allow him to remove your upper body clothing. First your tight black mesh top, and then your bra, freeing your boobs for him to gaze at. "Look who's drooling now."

Your statement made him snap out of his shock: clearly the sight of your nipple piercings had been a new experience for him. He attacked your lips with a new fervour, then moved down to suck on your nipple and its barbell. Gasps escaped you at the sensation, and you arched your back up instinctively.

"You're so sexy," he stopped for breath, complimenting you, "How have I never seen you before?"

Your breath hitched, and for a moment the reality of the situation came back to you. Just as quickly, though, it left again, as he began work on your other nipple. It was a wonderful feeling, but you needed more, so you pushed him over until you were on top and began unbuckling his trousers.

His dick was big and thick, and you could tell by the glint in his eyes as he looked down at you that he knew and was proud. You shook your head, bringing your lips to the tip and pressing a gentle kiss. Your teasing didn't last for long, however, as you soon gave into the urge to take it into your mouth. He groaned deliciously in response, and you took that as your cue to lick a strip up the side as you began fondling his balls.

"Just like that, baby," he moaned, making you realise he hadn't even asked for your name.

You took him in your mouth again, this time going as far down as your throat would allow, feeling the urge to gag building up in you. His louder groans made the effort worth it, though, as you deepthroated him. Pulling away for breath, you looked up at him with doe eyes and said, "If I'm sucking your dick, you might as well eat me out." And with that, you pulled your tights and panties down, leaving only your skirt on, before sitting on his face assertively.

The action made him groan more, and you leaned down to continue work on his dick as you felt him find your clit almost immediately. His tongue ministrations had you moaning around his dick, making you begin grinding on his face out of reflex. If you weren't drunk, you wouldn't be nearly this shameless and forward.

To his credit, he ate you out like a man starved, and it wasn't long before the pleasure became so much you had to give up on his dick and give in to the sensation.

"Fuck, Theo, I'm gonna come," you moaned, and his movements only got quicker, until you felt your core tighten and then release. Your body convulsed as he rode you through the high.

Eventually, you got off his face.

"D'you have condoms?" you asked, knowing he hadn't yet finished and also that you weren't yet satisfied.

"Always." He reached for his trousers over the side of the bed and pulled a condom out of his wallet.

You took it from him, tearing the packet with your teeth whilst making eye contact, and carefully sheathing his dick. His breath hitched once you were done: the only warning you got before he got up and pushed you down on to all fours, lining himself up behind you. The push in wasn't difficult, since you were quite well prepared, but it was still sensationally tight for him.

"Fuck, baby," he grunted, pushing in the last couple inches, "You feel so fuckin' good. So wet for me."

In reply, you moaned, and he took that as his cue to begin moving.

He pushed up your skirt to slap your ass, leaving a red imprint on your cheek, before gripping your hips and picking up the pace. You became a mess beneath him, even more so when one of his hands snuck around to begin rubbing circles on your clit. The bedsheets were crumpled in your hands with how tight you were gripping them, but Theo didn't stop.

"Oh, fuck, I'm gonna-" he cut himself off with a grunt.

"Me too," you squeaked out.

"Come with me." The assertive way in which he said it had you falling apart yet again, and by the way his movements were becoming sloppy, you could guess that he was too. When he then collapsed next to you, you knew that your guess had been correct.

Turning to lay on your back, you let out a content sigh.

"You know my name," he said.

You chuckled breathlessly.

"Who are you?"

You shrugged, deciding that you had given yourself enough time to regain your composure and getting up off the bed to clothe yourself. "You'll see," you said as you pulled your final clothing item back on.

And, with that concluding comment, you left Theo speechless on a random bed of the host's house.

***

You told no one of that night, deciding that you didn't need to hear your friends say what a stupid idea it was for you as a muggle-born to fuck a pure-blood supremacist. You already knew that yourself, but that didn't stop you from dreaming about how his tongue felt against your pussy, or how his hands felt on your body. Merlin, it was the best sex that you had ever had, and it just had to be with someone who would never want you again after finding out the truth.

It was on the train to Hogwarts that you saw him next. Despite how excited you were to return to the castle after over a year, the anxiety of your next meeting with Theo had been consuming you. And, in a lit up train in your classic school uniform, you were a lot more recognisable than in the dark in your own clothes. Especially considering you were with your friend group.

You stared at him as he stood in the doorway of you and your friends' compartment, with Mattheo Riddle and Lorenzo Berkshire stood behind him. They were likely on the hunt for some younger years to belittle.

"Well, Miss Goody-Two-Shoes has certainly changed a lot, hasn't she?" Riddle chuckled from behind Theo, who was simply staring at you with widened eyes and a clenched jaw.

"Theo? Mate? You alright?" Berkshire asked, snapping his friend out of his daze.

"Yeah, yeah, fine," he said dismissively, "Let's go."

His friends appeared confused, but didn't question it.

Your friends, however, did.

"What the fuck was up with that?" your best friend, Elena, asked, "Is the man scared of a couple piercings or something?"

She didn't even know what she was saying when she said that, you thought to yourself, thinking back to his reaction to your nipple piercings. You simply shrugged at her, "He just hates to see a muggle-born succeed."

Everyone agreed with hums, and the conversation shifted to other subjects.

***

Theodore Nott had spent the last two weeks of Summer wondering what the fuck the mysterious girl he fucked at a party meant by, "You'll see," and then following that up with a wank using memories of you. But, in that moment, stood in front of you on the Hogwarts Express, where you were in better lighting and more recognisable attire, he felt the world crash down around him.

How had he fucked a mudblood? The one thing that was ingrained into his brain since childhood to never do? Ever? The worst part is, he hadn't just liked the sex, he had loved it. He had already had numerous wet dreams about your lips and your boobs and your ass. And now? Now he had to push all of that aside because he couldn't ever fuck you again.

He just couldn't.

"Theo- Earth to Theo," the voice of Lorenzo next to him brought him from his thoughts.

"What?" he snapped back.

"What's got you so worked up?"

Mattheo chuckled, "Can't you see him staring at mudblood L/N? I can't tell if you wanna kill her or fuck her."

That statement earned Mattheo a glare from Theo.

"Maybe both?" Lorenzo suggested, making them both laugh.

"Who was it again that you hooked up with at the party?" Mattheo asked before shovelling food into his mouth.

"He didn't say, remember? Said she never told him her name."

"It doesn't matter," Theo spat.

Lorenzo and Mattheo exchanged looks as realisation dawned on them, and they both slowly turned to Theo who was still glaring daggers in your direction.

"No, you didn't..." Mattheo said first.

Theo said nothing.

"You fucked a mudblood," Lorenzo stated, finishing Mattheo's thought.

"You didn't realise it was L/N," Mattheo continued.

"She'd changed a lot, okay?" Theo said angrily, "I thought she was from the year below or something."

His two friends began howling with laughter, meanwhile Theo sat brooding in silence at the Slytherin table.

***

Saturday rolled around, and you were relieved to be able to shed the school uniform and tug on your clothes that had become an important part of you. Thankfully, Hogwarts hadn't been too strict about your piercings, in fact you had even received compliments from some professors. But, honestly, the rules weren't all that strict since it was still a sensitive time with many grieving from the war.

The Summer weather was still lingering, and you basked in the sunlight as you walked down one of the open hallways, watching first years giggling amongst themselves as they played with their new magic skills. It brought a smile to your face, to see things returning to normal; you had missed Hogwarts dearly while you had been away, not knowing how long you would have to remain in hiding. You had even begun applications for muggle university— because, really, how could you have known whether it would be one year or ten before you could freely be a witch again?

You turned a corner, and in your drifted thoughts, didn't notice the person walking around the other way until it was too late and your shoulders had shoved against each other.

"Shit, sorry," you muttered, realising all too late that it was Theo. He was glaring at you, just like he had at every meal and every class you shared all week.

"Watch where you're going, mudblood," he snapped.

Rolling your eyes, you mumbled, "Wasn't a problem three weeks ago."

"Never speak of that," he said lowly, his voice threatening.

"Why? Annoyed sex with a mudblood was good?" you retorted, and then you found yourself pinned up against the wall.

"Watch your mouth, miss."

"Don't you mean 'baby'?" you smirked, relishing in the way his eyes darkened.

You almost missed the way his gaze flicked to your lips, but then he pulled away, refusing to look at you.

"Fuck you, L/N," he spat, storming off, and you watched in amusement with your back still against the wall.

***

Theodore Nott was livid. Absolutely livid. You wound him up in the worst way possible, only for him to try and scare you- fail- and then find himself wanting nothing more than to smash his lips on to yours. When you reminded him of the pet name he used while you were fucking, the blood in his body rushed straight to his dick: the feeling of his arms gripping yours and the close proximity had felt electric. Your very presence set him on fire in every single way possible.

He hated every second.

With previous hook-ups, he had hooked up a few more times with them until he had gotten bored and moved on to the next. Before he found out who you were, he had been planning on doing the same, and now the fact he couldn't was driving him crazy. He thought about you every minute of the day, every minute of the night, and- unfortunately- whenever his hand was wrapped around his dick. And, after his interaction with you in the hallway, he knew that he needed a good fuck from at least a half-blood, if not a pure-blood.

Yes, that was all it was, his body was desperate for sex and as you were the last person he fucked, his thoughts simply went to you first. That was all it was.

Definitely.

***

Potions lesson on Monday rolled around quicker than you would have liked, but it wasn't all bad, as Slughorn was a nice enough professor. You sequestered yourself next to your best friend, ready to begin the lesson. He had promised you all your first practical lesson today, and you were excited to use a cauldron again after so long.

The only real downside of the class was that Theo was in it, and he seemed even angrier (if that was possible) than he was last week. His eyes were pinned on to you like you had murdered his family. You shrugged it off, setting up the work station while Elena went to fetch the various ingredients that you required.

Meanwhile, Theo sat across the class from you, feeling incredibly frustrated. Saturday night, he had tried to fuck another girl, but he couldn't get himself hard until he imagined that she was you. And, even then, he couldn't finish. His imagination couldn't go as far as making her feel and act like you, after all. Now, all he knew, was that you were his enemy, and his remedy. And you had the audacity to act so calm and unbothered all the fucking time.

"Your obsession isn't healthy," Mattheo spoke from next to him, dumping the potion ingredients on the table.

"It's not an obsession."

"What is it, then?" his friend scoffed, "Love?"

Theo furrowed his eyebrows.

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

Mattheo watched as Theo rose to his feet and began haphazardly chopping ingredients, the tiny knife taking the brunt of his anger.

"If it's affecting you so bad, just fuck her again."

"She's mudblood."

"It's not like you're impregnating her," Mattheo reasoned.

Theo sighed deeply, "It's not that simple. I've had it trained into me since birth that we don't associate with mudbloods."

"Well," Mattheo shifted on his feet, "Parents aren't always right."

"Since when did you sympathise with them?"

"I don't- I just," Mattheo muttered something inaudible to himself, and then said, "I don't want people to think I'm my father."

Theo said nothing.

"I'm just saying, mate, your mother's dead and your father's in prison for life— who gives a fuck what they think?"

"It's the principle."

"What even is the principle?"

"What would Draco think? Lorenzo? All of our friends?"

"Draco's not the man he was before the war," Mattheo said quietly. He knew better than anyone, being Draco's cousin, he had grown up with him due to his parents' absence. "I'm just saying. Maybe we should leave some beliefs in the past."

"You've gotten soft," Theo grumbled, "Just last week you were shitting on me for fucking her."

Mattheo shrugged, "Force of habit, I guess. I've just been doing a lot of thinking lately."

"That's rare."

"Shut up."

***

Truth was, despite all of Theo's dick behaviour and discrimination of your kind, you still found yourself waking up in a sweat thinking about his hands roaming your body. That goddamned Slytherin was the bane of your existence and the reason for your catharsis. He had diseased you, plagued you. He was a parasite that you couldn't get rid of, that was eating away at your sanity. What happened to your self respect? To your pride? You got fucked into heaven, that's what. And now your sexual urges were spreading like fire all throughout your bloodstream.

Wanking didn't feel the same anymore— your fingers didn't hold the electricity and passion that Theo's did. You craved him like a drug: and that's exactly what he was. He was something you shouldn't do, something that was bad for your health, but something that could have you seeing stars. Why did he have to be a blood supremacist?

But would it feel this intense if he wasn't? Maybe you two being forbidden, being star-crossed, was the reason that it made you feel so alive. You loved the fact he stared at you, even if it was with fury so powerful it made his whole body shake. It made you feel as if you had gotten to him the way he had gotten to you.

Just one taste of heaven had left you wanting to experience it a thousand times over.

"Get your shit together, Y/N," you cursed to yourself, forcing yourself out of bed.

"What was that?" one of your dorm mates asked.

"Nothing," you replied, "Just going crazy."

"Aren't we all?" she agreed.

***

"Party in the Slytherin dungeons tonight," Pansy stated to you one hellish week later.

You blinked at her, "And I'm invited?"

The girl nodded, evidently feeling awkward, "A lot of us are trying to- uh- make amends with mud- muggle-borns."

You raised an eyebrow at her near slip-up.

"Look- I'm- I'm sorry for how I treated you in the past," she said, actually appearing genuine, "It wasn't right."

"Um, thank you," you replied hesitantly.

"I know I don't speak for all the Slytherins, but a lot of us have done some thinking over the Summer," she continued, "We've lived in an echo chamber for too long."

That you agreed with.

"And, honestly, I think you're really cool- and I hope we can be friends."

You were taken aback by her words, never imagining that a pure-blood like Pansy Parkinson would be saying such words to you. But, maybe, forgiving her wouldn't be such a bad thing. "I... forgive you, I think," you said slowly, "I hope we can be friends too."

She gave you a small but warm smile, "Thank you. Will I see you there?"

You nodded cautiously, "Yeah, I think so."

"Great, uh, come say hi when you get there."

And with that, she disappeared, leaving you in a state of shock and confusion.

***

"Why are there so many mudbloods here?" Lorenzo asked irritatedly, sitting down on the sofa next to his friend group.

"Be civil, Enzo," Pansy gently scolded, "They're witches and wizards just like us."

"But they're not, though. Right, Matt?"

Mattheo shrugged slightly, "I'm with Pansy on this one, I think."

"See, Enzo? Even the Dark Lord's son agrees with me."

Mattheo grimaced at being reminded of who his father was.

"What about you, Theo?" Lorenzo asked.

But Theo wasn't listening, too busy glaring at you with his jaw clenched as you entered the common room, dressed up in an annoyingly similar way that you were back at the Summer party. Lorenzo followed his gaze, but he already knew where it would be leading to.

"Theo is not the person to ask," Blaise chuckled, appearing out of nowhere and sitting next to Theo, "I reckon he's about two interactions with L/N away from saying 'fuck it' and accepting his fate."

"What fate?" Theo snapped.

"The fate of falling in love with a muggle-born," Pansy said with a giggle.

"I'm not falling for her."

"Yeah, you just think and talk about her all the time," Draco, who had been quiet the whole time, spoke.

"Do you not have a problem with it?" Lorenzo asked Draco.

The blond boy shrugged, "I have a lot of regrets regarding muggle-borns. I don't want anymore."

Lorenzo groaned.

"Times are changing, Enzo," Pansy said gently, "I think you should change with them."

The man scowled and stormed off.

Meanwhile, you had finally spotted Pansy across the room, surrounded by the Slytherin boys— including Theo. You took a deep breath, deciding for the sake of a potential friendship you would have to bear it and fulfil her request of saying hi. You arrived at their group moments after you had seen Berkshire leave angrily.

"Uh, hi," you said to Pansy.

"Hi," her face lit up, "Have you got a drink? I'll get you one."

"Oh, thank you."

"It's no worries— make yourself comfortable," she then turned to the boys, "Play nice."

Mattheo raised his hands in mock surrender, but all Theo did was keep his eyes glued on to you.

Zabini shifted along the sofa, gesturing for you to sit in between him and Theo, which you cautiously accepted. The second you felt the warmth of Theo's thigh brush against yours, sparks jolted through your body, and you nearly jumped. You could have sworn you heard his breath hitch, too. This was the first time in two weeks that he wasn't looking at you, instead his eyes were trained ahead like he was retaining every ounce of self control within him.

"The sexual tension is suffocating," Mattheo remarked, standing up to go after Pansy.

His statement seemed to fuel the flame that you had desperately been trying to keep dim inside of you, and suddenly staying sat next to Theo seemed like an entirely impossible task. You were not nearly drunk enough for this. Thankfully, Pansy returned quickly with Mattheo lingering behind her, and she handed you a glass.

"Firewhiskey and coke," she said simply.

"Thanks," you accepted the glass, and downed the entire thing, "I'll get another one."

You left them all, hearing Pansy scold Theo for scaring you off, but you could still feel his eyes burning holes into your back. Just a couple more drinks and then you would join the dance floor, you decided.

And there you soon were, grinding up against a Hufflepuff boy with liquid courage flooding through your veins. You had just about managed to push Theodore Nott to the back of your mind, but you knew that it was only a temporary fix. This Hufflepuff boy was attractive, but he didn't set you alight.

"Someone's jealous," Blaise chuckled, watching as Theo glared daggers at the boy you were dancing with. Ever since you had joined the dance floor, he had been necking back drinks like his soul depended on it, and it just might. With every gulp, he was feeling more reckless and dangerous. "Accept it, mate, you're in deep."

Theo let out a sound that bordered on a growl.

"The only thing stopping you is yourself."

And as Blaise's words sank in, and the Hufflepuff boy appeared to be going in to kiss you, something snapped within Theo. In a flash, he was on his feet and taking large purposeful strides in your direction. Then, the Hufflepuff boy was torn from your side and being punched directly on the nose with such a force he toppled over. He didn't even get a chance to fight back as Theo continued to hit him, merciless in his moves.

You stood in shock watching the scene unfold before you. After what felt like forever, Mattheo and Lorenzo showed up, pulling Theo off the poor boy who had done nothing wrong.

"What the fuck was that for?" the boy yelled, blood pouring down his face.

Theo said nothing, glaring at him as he finally stopped fighting his friends' grip.

"You need to calm down, mate," Mattheo said sternly, digging his fingers into his friend's bicep.

"Theo." You said, unaware what your intentions were when the name slipped out of your mouth. Regardless, his eyes snapped to yours, appearing to soften slightly as he observed your fearful stance.

What was stopping him, really? Did the purity of his bloodline really matter to him that much?

"I think you two need to talk," Mattheo said firmly, "And I think one of you in particular- not naming any names- needs to get over his own bullshit excuses and give into what he wants."

Theo's bloodied hand wrapped around your wrist, tugging you in the direction of the Slytherin dormitories. You didn't fight him, strangely feeling your fear slip away despite what you had just witnessed Theo be capable of. When you were stood in his empty dormitory, face to face, you knew that you would have to be the first to say something.

"You were jealous," you said it as delicately as you could.

He said nothing, not even looking at you. This made you angry— enraged, even.

"Fucking look at me, Theo!" you screamed, "You haven't had any difficulty with it all week— staring at me like I'm the shit on your fucking shoe!"

His eyes locked on to yours.

"If you regret fucking me, just say it!"

"I don't regret it," he said, his volume low but tone dangerous, "Everything I've been raised to believe wants me to regret it but I can't."

You stood, stunned at his confession.

"I need you like I need water, you're an itch I can't scratch," he was stepping closer to you, making you step back, "You make me feel fucking ecstasy and misery all at once."

Your back hit the wall, and he grabbed your wrist again, bringing it to press against his crotch.

"Do you feel what you do to me?" he said darkly, "I've never been so hard in my life."

You gulped, "I'm not just gonna be another of your bitches, Theo, so forget it." Even though you wanted it so bad, and you were dripping from your core.

"That's the thing, L/N," he chuckled sinisterly, "I don't think I could ever get enough. I don't think anyone else will be able to satiate me ever again."

You jaw dropped.

"I think..." he continued, "...that you're a drug I got addicted to after only one hit."

You closed your mouth, looking up at him expectantly.

"And I don't think I ever want to be sober from you."

"But, I'm a muggle-born-"

He cut you off by slamming his lips on to yours with such furious passion your mind became hazy as you eagerly returned the kiss, lifting up your arms to wrap them around your neck. For a moment, he pulled away, just to whisper, "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I don't think I care. I think I just want you in every humanly possible way."

"Then have me," you murmured.

It became a blur as his lips crashed on to yours yet again, and he picked you up by your thighs with his blood stained hands, leaving imprints on your bare skin through your fishnets. He moved you over to his bed, kissing down your neck while he blindly reached for the hem of your top. He wasted no time in pulling it off, along with your bra, so he could continue kissing down your body.

You relished the sensation— savouring it— feeling like you were the only girl in the world. Theo was treating you with such roughness and yet such care, like he had tunnel vision for you and only you.

He pulled off his shirt, before moving down to pull down your skirt, fishnets, and panties all at once. You watched breathlessly as he dived into your leaking pussy and ate you out like a man starved. He groaned, murmuring, "I've missed this taste so fucking much," before continuing his ministrations, eliciting the filthiest moans from you that had ever been produced. This felt even better than the last time.

"You are my goddess," he licked up your pussy, "And my devil."

He began sucking on your clit, and your body felt as if it was lifting from the bed as your orgasm hit you like a shockwave, coursing through your body and sending you to places you had only brushed against before.

"Fuck, Theo," you moaned, "Please fuck me."

The man didn't need telling twice, unbuckling his belt and kicking off his trousers. He didn't waste any time going to his bedside table to grab a condom out of the drawer, tearing it open and pulling it on in record speed. You would have helped him, but your orgasm had you borderline paralysed.

And, then, he was lining up in front of you— for the first time in his life, all he wanted was to fuck missionary. He wanted to see your face (and your nipple piercings that had him drooling) and he wanted to see your expressions as you came undone below him. To him, this was the most intimate that you could get in sex, and he only wanted that with you.

He groaned louder than he had ever groaned when he let himself push inside you, knowing that no other pussy would ever feel as magical as yours. Knowing that he should never have even considered depriving himself of this for some stupid blood purity reasons.

"Fuck, baby, you feel fucking amazing," he breathed out. You reached your arms up, gesturing for him to come down closer to you.

Theo obeyed, kissing you as he began thrusting, while his bloodied hands explored every inch of you, leaving a trail as they went.

"I'd rub your clit, but I don't want to get blood there," he said through heavy pants. You couldn't help but let out a small giggle, moving your own hand down to aid yourself along.

Your moans increased tenfold, as did his pace, and it wasn't long before he was biting down on to your neck in order to contain the groans that were fighting their way out of him. Who would have thought that such plain love making could make him feel so on top of the world?

"Theo- I'm gonna come," you choked out, and the way his teeth sank deeper told you that he was going to as well. As you both reached heaven in unity, he gave up suppressing his moans, and gave you the most melodious earful that you had ever heard as his movements became sloppy and tingles spread through your veins.

Eventually, he collapsed on top of you, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, stroking his hair gently as you lay in a post-sex haze.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, making your brain short circuit.

"You what?"

"I'm sorry for being a pretentious asshole."

A smile creeped on to your face, "So, is this just a sex thing, or...?"

"Fuck no," he snapped, "I need you all the time. You're mine."

"So, it's a girlfriend boyfriend thing?"

He froze, but then relaxed, and said into your neck, "Yeah, I guess it is."

"You guess?"

He sighed, "Well, you've ruined me for anyone else."

————————————————

masterlist

written; 07/04/2024 —> 08/04/2024 published; 10/04/2024 edited; —/—/——

[ultraviolet-ink]

An Important Warning:

On November 1, 2024, I received the below comment on one of my fics. I had replied to it, believing it to be in good faith. This person, Leaona Colin, as seen by the Ao3 comment chain and discord profile below, directly messaged me under the guise of discussing my fic, and the conversation was normal for the most part

The conversation started to change into an attempt to strong arm me into commissioning them directly (something that unfortunately does happen through a desperate measure) for an animation project. I had believed, in my naivety, that this was just two artists workshopping ideas until they had mentioned this being a "paid collaboration". Please note that I at NO POINT made any indication of wanting to make a commission or anything of the like. For the full context, I will link our discord conversation in its entirety

At this point, the conversation started to change to the commission, and in my own personal awkwardness/fear of being perceived as rude, I played along because I honestly did not know what to do next. The way that this person has approached me feels like a MUCH bigger red flag than the insane price they came up with. It would be one thing to come into my direct messages and say "hey, I'm an animator and I'm wondering if you'd be interested in commissioning me to draw [scene] as a paid commission", however what I went through was a bait and switch. I had gone into this thinking I would be entering a casual conversation about my fic, about the story, and about my writing process, but that pretense was very quickly dropped after the above polite small talk

Mind you, THIS is the animation that they seem to be requesting between 1800-2200 USD for:

I had debated whether or not I should include the video, but I feel that it is important to bring up due to the insane price and the information that @baratrongirl helped provide me with due to her husband's own experience in this industry (thank you SO much Richard!!)

I have reported the comment to Ao3 and I have reported the profile to Discord itself. This is a warning to fic authors and other fan creators to please, please, PLEASE, be on the lookout and to stay safe. I have also learned of a recent scam in Ao3/FFN comment sections where a wave of commission scammers use stolen or ai art to promote themselves and either make of with the money or send some sort of ai art. There hasn't been any mention of anything for animation, but it is very much possible that the scam is evolving, more info about this can be linked below r/FanFiction: PMs on Fanfiction.net offering me commissioned art r/AO3: Great, the art scammers are now being registered users r/AO3: These comments are starting to be an annoying trend

[seventeenytiny]

Favorite Place to Cum - Stray Kids

Smut - MDNI

Word Count: 887 Warnings: Smut, marking, Skz are light doms, daddy kink with Lee Know, oral (male receiving) Author's Note: Someone else posted this exact same prompt recently but I promise that I had this in my drafts for a bit and it was purely coincidental that we posted around the same time :)

Bang Chan - Inside

He loves coming inside, why would he pull out when it feels so good to be inside you? He likes to have you at the edge of the bed, your legs wrapped around his waist while he pounds into you. He leans over your body, his broad shoulders protecting you from the world. Chan kisses your face before leaning towards your ear, "Gonna cum in that pretty pussy, okay love?" A simple nod is all he needs before he fills you up with his warm cum.

Lee Know - Face

He loves marking you and using his cum is one way he can do that. He's been fucking you all night, at this point he's already given you several mind-blowing orgasms. After you calm down from your previous high he pulls his cock out of you. "Do me a favor angel, get on your knees and clean off Daddy's cock." Wasting no time, you eagerly take his length into your mouth, using your hands to work what won't fit. His orgasm approaches rapidly, and he pulls out with little warning, painting your face white.

Changbin - Ass

Changbin loves everything a person can like about a good ass. He loves holding it, squeezing it, spanking it, and cumming on it. For these reasons, he often likes to fuck you from behind, he goes hard and fast, loving the way your ass slaps against his pelvis. After what felt like hours of fucking, he could feel his high approaching suddenly as his dick goes in and out of your dripping pussy. The wet sounds of him fucking you are ultimately what puts him over the edge. He pulls out right at the last second, jerking his cock as you feel hot cum spill onto your ass.

Hyunjin - Stomach

Hyunjin loooves panting your tummy white with his cum. He honestly just loves all parts of your body, but your stomach is simply a work of art. He's fucking you missionary, watching how your face contorts with pleasure and how your tits bounce with each thrust. Once he hears you cry out his name while your pussy clenches around his cock it's all over for him. He pulls out hastily, fisting his cock until his cum falls onto your stomach.

Han - Tits

This man loves tits, big or small he wants them all. He has you on your knees in front of him, his hands holding your hair back as you take his length into your mouth. A dildo that he suctioned cupped to the floor fills you nicely as you pleasure Jisung. You start to feel overstimulated, the pleasure from the toy is making it hard for you to focus with your mouth. Your high hits as you ride the toy, juices leaking out of you and spilling onto the floor as you finish Jisung off with your hands. Just the sight of you leaking onto the floor has Jisung cumming all over your chest, some of his cum hitting your chin and dripping to the floor.

Felix - Tits

Another man who is a big fan of tits. Imagine the two of you doing mutual masturbation, sitting across from each other on the bed as both of you focus on the other's body. The way you have your legs wide open in front of him is driving him insane. You take your fingers to spread your pussy for him, slipping a finger in your dripping hole. Felix grunts as he fists his hard cock, the wet sounds of your fingers fucking your pussy is music to his ears. He's going to cum fast and he's going to cum hard. Right before he orgasms he jumps up on top of your body, his legs straddling your torso. He pumps his cock as hot cum falls onto your tits, his eyes half closed from pleasure.

Seungmin - On your pussy

This man loves to pull out right at the very last second and cum right on your pussy. He loves how dominant it makes him feel, it's like he's marking your pussy as his. I imagine he'd like to have you right at the edge of the bed, your legs hanging off as he fucks into you. His thrusts have been fast and harsh all night, and your clit has been abused by him pinching and slapping it. You feel your second orgasm of the night take over you, wrapping your legs around his waist. The feeling of your pussy clenching around him triggers his orgasm as well, he pulls out as soon as the feeling hits. Ropes of his cum cover your pussy, slowly dripping down to the bed.

I.N - Lower back

I think Jeongin would really like fucking his partner doggy style. He loves how your ass slaps against his body with each thrust. Just the sounds that you make while he takes you from behind could have him cumming in an instant. Your moans are hard to muffle even with your face pushed into the bed, the amount of pleasure he is giving you is overwhelming. You cum around his cock, screaming his name, he can't hold back his high anymore at this point. He pulls out, and you feel the warmth of his cum as it coats your lower back, dripping down the side of your body.

[cup-o-stars]

How to draw like you no borax

Good question!

I'd warn against following my process (at least if you want to learn), but I'll be honest and show you, lol. (Heads up: this is just how I do FAN art. When having fun, I generally care less about the fundamentals.)

1. I slap down super rough sketches, jotting lines/expressions like bullet points of my idea. Pretty much stick figures with just enough detail to remember who's who later. Not shown here, I also move, resize, and add details to express the intended composition if I'm planning something larger. You may notice a lot of curved lines / haphazard circles.

2. I refine the sketch by drawing it with more intention and build structure with slightly blockier shapes. If I'm really struggling with a pose, this is also where I'll find references or look at myself for bits and pieces to fill in the gaps. (When practicing, I would highly recommend using a reference from the start so all your limbs are an appropriate length and you don't need to say things like "that's passable" right before posting. If you're a perfectionist you'll leave that thought with the rough sketch.)

3. I'll decide around here whether or not to leave the sketch as is or commit to lineart (not likely). I guess I'd say I "shape the lines" here by going over some to add thickness/weight, and by adding basic sort-of-shading to break things up a little. Then I'll just fill in space if the page looks empty. (Usually this is where I incorporate the borax, but I hear baking soda works nicely if you're worried.)

4. Onto coloring. I don't feel confident enough to pretend I know what I'm doing here, lol. I just choose my base colors, imagine the general direction of the light source, then add minor gradients to the light and dark layers so they don't look flat. Then I just add some BS highlights and outline them. I've only recently found the motivation to properly practice coloring and just go with the flow tbh.

You may notice that Nami's forearm is too long, her hand looks like a pancake and Chopper has no joints! My kind sibling explained to me once that my anatomy is poor, but cohesive enough that nothing stands out too bad, lol. That's why it is important to use references!! And if you're me, practice all parts of anatomy at the same time with full bodies so that even when you're at a loss, your hands aren't that much better than your feet.

All in all, to draw like me, just have a very hedonistic approach to art, ha. Draw what you want, avoid getting burnt out on any single piece (sometimes that happens when you try to perfect drawings one at a time), and follow my personal motto:

Make fun, not masterpieces.

Idk how helpful this was, but there you have it!

[communistkenobi]

I’ve been thinking a lot about fandom recently, both as someone who has engaged with it regularly for over a decade on various platforms and also as someone who has increasingly become disenchanted with those spaces. Not only because of pervasive issues of (especially anti-Black) racism, misogyny, transphobia/homophobia, and the like, but the particular way those things take shape within fandom.

At the most basic level I think fandom has a fundamental methodological problem with the way it approaches texts, be they shows, books, movies, etc. What I mean is that people almost invariably approach fandom at the level of character, often at the level of ship - your primary way of viewing a text is filtered through favourite characters and favourite relationships, as opposed to, say, favourite scenes, favourite themes, favourite conflicts.

This is reinforced through the architecture of dominant platforms that host fan content, particularly AO3 - there are separate categories for fandom, character and ship, and everything else is lumped together in “Additional Tags.” You cannot, for example, filter for fics on AO3 by the category of “critical perspective” or “thematic exploration”. There is no dedicated space for fan authors to declare their analytical perspective on the text they are writing about. If an author declares these things, they do so individually, they must go out of their way to do so, because there are no dedicated or universally agreed-upon tags to indicate those things, and if your fanfiction has a lot of tags, that announcement of criticality gets mushed together in a sea of other tags, sharing the same space with tags like “fluff and angst” or “porn without plot.” Perhaps one of the few tags closest to approaching this is the tag “Dead Dove: Do Not Eat,” which doesn’t indicate perspective or theme but rather that there is, broadly, some kind of “problematic content” contained therein - often of a sexual nature, frequently as a warning about “bad” ships.

Now this is not an inherent problem, as in, it is not inherently incorrect to approach a text and primarily derive pleasure from it by focusing on a given character or relationship. And I think a lot of mainstream media encourages (even requires) audiences to engage with their stories at these character- and ship-levels. The political economy of the production of art (one which is capitalistic, one that seeks to generate comfort, titillation, controversy, nostalgia, or shock for the purposes of drawing in viewership, one that increasingly pursues social media metrics of “engagement” and “impressions”, one that allows for the Netflix model of making two-season shows before cancelling them, as well as a whole host of other things) enforces a particular narrative orthodoxy, one that heavily focuses on the individual interiority of specific characters, one that is deeply concerned with the maintenance of white bourgeois middle class values of property ownership, the nuclear family, normative heterosexual sexuality and gender, settler-colonial ideas about community and environment, etc. If you do not care about the familial drama surrounding Shauna cheating on her husband in Yellowjackets, for example, because you think the institution of monogamous marriage and the nuclear family is stupid and violent and heternormative, then you will have a difficult time engaging with the show in general. We exist within a deeply normative (and frequently reactionary) media environment that encourages us to approach art in a particular way, one that privileges the individual over other narrative components (settings, themes, conflicts, ideas, political and moral perspectives, structure, tone, etc).

All of which culminates in priming fans to engage with art at these levels and these levels alone, even when that scope is deeply inappropriate. A standout example I recently encountered was browsing the fandom tags on tumblr for the movie Prey - a movie that recontextualises the original Predator film by setting it in colonial America to make the argument that the horrific violence of white colonists and imperial soldiers is identical to the violence we see the Predator do to human beings. It is a movie that makes the argument that, despite this alien monster running around killing people, the villains of the franchise are these occupying soldiers and settlers, an alien force who themselves have just as little regard for (indigenous) human life.

And when browsing the tags on tumblr, what I found was dozens upon dozens of horny posts about how hot the predator monster was. Certainly there were discussion of the film’s narrative, and these posts got a good amount of notes, but the tags were heavily dominated with a focus on the Predator itself. People were engaging with this film not as a solid action movie with interesting and compelling anti-colonial themes, but as a way to be horny about a creature that is, ironically, a stand-in for white settler indifference to (and perpetuation of) indigenous suffering. And if this is your takeaway from an extremely straightforward film with a very clear message, this is not merely a failure to comprehend the content of a text, this is something beyond it - a problem that I think is due in part to the methodological problem of approaching all texts as vessels for bourgeois interiority, individual but ultimately interchangeable expressions of sexuality, perhaps best-expressed by the term “roving slash fandom,” a phenomenon wherein fans will move from one fandom to the next in search of two (usually white, usually skinny) guys to draw and write porn of, uncaring of any of the surrounding context of the stories they are embedded in, and consequently dominating a large sector of fandom discussion.

This even gets expressed in the primary ideological battleground of fandom itself, the ridiculous partitioning of all fan conflict into “pro-“ and “anti-“ shipping compartments. Your stance on engagement with fandom itself historically was (and still is) always first filtered through one of these two labels, describing your fundamental perspective on all texts you engage with. And both of these two labels are only concerned with shipping, as if all disagreements about art can only be interpreted through the lens of what characters you think are acceptable to draw or write having sex. Nowhere in this binary is space to describe any other perspective you might take, what approaches you think are valuable when interacting with art, what themes or stories you think are worth exploring. It’s not just that the pro/anti divide is juvenile and overly-simplistic, it is a declaration that all fan conflict must be read through the lens of shipping and shipping only - the implication being that any objections raised, and criticisms offered, is ultimately just bitching about ships you don’t like.

Which, again, I think is a fundamental error of methodology. It leaves no space for people to discuss the political and moral content of a work, the themes of a piece of art, the thorny issues of representation not just as expressed through individual characters but entire worlds, narratives, settings, and themes. You are always hopelessly stuck in the quagmire of “shipping discourse,” and even rejecting that framework will inevitably get you labelled as either pro- or anti-ship anyway - and you will almost invariably be labelled an “anti” if you express any kind of distaste for the bigoted behaviour of fans or the content of the text itself, again reinforcing the idea that this is all just pointless whining online about icky ships you personally hate.

And this issue is best perhaps epitomised by reader insert fanfiction, circumventing any need for you to project onto a character by literally inserting yourself into fiction, primarily in order to write/read about a character you want to fuck. This then intersects in particularly disgusting ways with real world politics, such as reader insert fics about Pedro Pascal going with you to BLM protests. Even if this is (incredibly over-generously) interpreted as a very poor attempt at being “progressive,” it still demonstrates that many (white) fans are often incapable of thinking about anything outside of a character-centric perspective, quite literally centring themselves in the process, and consequently they think it’s totally appropriate to do things like that. The fact that this is also frequently a racist lens is not coincidental, because again, a chronic focus on (fictional) individuality prohibits any structural perspective from entering the discussion, which necessarily excludes a coherent or useful perspective on systemic issues, where people come to the conclusion that the topic of police brutality is little more than a fun stage to enact whatever romantic shenanigans you want to get up to with a hot guy.

I will stress, again, that it is not a moral sin to have a favourite character, nor is it bad to enjoy reading about two guys having sex in fanfiction. I enjoy and do those things, I engage with fandom often through a character-centric lens (see my url) - because it’s fun! But I think that this being the dominant mode of engagement inherently excludes and marginalises all other approaches, and creates a fandom space where the most valuable way to talk about media is to discuss which two characters you most enjoy imagining fucking each other

[lovelettersforthedamned]

The Winner

✰ stanford!art donaldson x stanford!f!reader

✰ word count : 1.0k

✰ summary : you never get tired of being art donaldson's girl, especially when you get to reward him for his win later that night.

✰ warnings: kissing, allusions to smut, minors dni, 18+, tashi erasure (i'm sorry), art is happy LOL.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

main m.list ⋆ art donaldson m.list

⋆ gif by @supersoldierslover

Your professor’s monotone voice was the cherry on top of your already long day. Scheduling back-to-back lectures right before Art’s game days wasn’t ideal, but you made it work. You’re grateful to not play a sport while also engaging in academics. There have been countless nights spent in the library with Art, going over his notes because his practice in the afternoon tends to run late, pushing his homework time to the late hours of the night. 

With your head resting on your hand, another yawn is pulled from your body. A buzz from your back pocket jolts you awake, causing an embarrassing heat to flood your face. Quietly, you reach for your phone and check the message that almost gave you a heart attack. 

artie <3: I saved you a spot! My bag should be on the seat, and there’s a snack in there for you. 

You smile at the text. 

you: I’ll be out of class soon! I love you, superstar. 

artie <3: I love you!

And with the clock striking six thirty in the afternoon, you jump out of your seat and rush to the courts. Determination is written across your face as you frantically rush to the spot Art had saved for you that’s right at the front. Sure enough, a granola bar is inside his bag. 

It only takes a few minutes before Art makes his entrance on the court, his eyes automatically searching for you. Even after months of dating, spotting him made your heart race. He’s so captivating in the way he moves, especially when he plays. 

But even as he’s approaching you, you’re stuck in a daze. “Hi, pretty girl,” his voice carries a smile through it, something you’ve always appreciated. You lean over the fence and give him a kiss, his hand coming to the side of your face as if he wants to pull you impossibly closer to his touch. 

Taking his other hand in yours, you can feel that his palm is slightly clammy, “Are you nervous? You shouldn’t be.” 

He huffed a laugh and looked down because his ‘tough guy’ act didn’t slide past you. “I’m always nervous when you watch me play,” he admits, a rosy blush fluttering over his cheeks. 

You squeeze his hand once, an unspoken form of reassurement. “Don’t be,” you smile, “I’m your number one fan.” You joke, but not really.

With one last kiss, he leaves to play the game you’ve watched him perfect for the past few years. And though he’s hitting the ball to his opponent, you can’t help but focus on your boyfriend. The muscles in his arm flex with each movement as the sweat drips down his forehead, causing him to pull the bottom of his shirt up to wipe the perspiration away. Giving you, and the girls behind you, a perfect view of the cut of his abdomen leading down to the waistband of his shorts. 

Of course, you knew Art was attractive, and pair that with him being the best man on the team, he’s bound to receive attention. At first, the constant gawks and inappropriate comments towards him made your blood boil. You couldn’t stand the sight of the girls throwing themselves at your boyfriend, but now, you’ve learned to use them to your advantage. 

Before dating Art, there was no way you would purposely put yourself out there. Going to parties and bars wasn’t your favorite way to spend Friday nights, but now, you’re forced to embrace the spotlight just by being associated with Stanford's star tennis player. 

Art always has you by his side, an arm snaked around your waist as he greets friends at social gatherings. It took a while to get used to, but you wouldn’t have it any other way with Art by your side. 

Leaning back in your seat, you enjoy the Spring sun as you watch Art’s match unfold. And with the girls behind you giggling at your boyfriend, you smile. You smile because you know you’ve won.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

With Art’s opponent hitting the ball out, that was the match; an easy victory for Stanford. You rise to your feet and smile while applauding. Slinging Art’s bag over your shoulder, you unapologetically flaunt the embroidered stitching writing, ‘DONALDSON’ towards the girls behind you before walking off. 

You make your way to the exit of the locker room as you wait for Art to appear. You make casual conversation with the people around you, mostly friends and family of the other players, when some of them start to come out. Slowly, but surely, you see the mess of dirty blond hair push open the door, a smirk coming to your lips. 

He puts his classic red hat on backward before engulfing you in a hug, picking you up off of your feet, and spinning you in a circle. You giggle as you find your footing on the pavement below you, “See? There's no need to be nervous when I watch. You crushed it, baby.” 

“Maybe you’re my good luck charm,” he suggests, pulling away before he grabs your hand, leading the both of you to his dorm—a stupid boyish smile on his face. 

You brush off the feeling of his cock pressed into your thigh as he spun you as you let him lead you to his place, “Is this you subtly asking that I come to every single one of your matches?” 

“Hmm,” that smile never faded from his mouth, “maybe?” 

“Are you going to prove to me why I should? Or are you going to keep subtly flirting with me until I’m the one that has to beg for you to fuck me?” 

Your question surprises him and causes him to quicken his pace as you laugh behind him. He’s dragging you to his room, and you won’t stop him. Not after his big victory, he deserves to feel good tonight. 

⋆ author's note: ANOTHER ART FIC BECAUSE I CANNOT GET ENOUGH OF HIM!!!! thank you for all the love on the last few art fics!!! don't forget to like, comment, and reblog this work if you loved it!! ok, ily byeeee!!!

[piastrisun]

front page flirt.

pairings: franco colapinto + (journalist) fem character.

summary: the usual charm of franco don’t sway elaine, but he knows he’s found his match—and he’s not giving up until he has her.

genre: fluff.⠀word count: 5.9k.⠀ warning: none.

notes: named female character. inspired by andrew and amelia, so this is a long one. i plan on making an smau about this as well.

elaine bennett is known for her sharp instincts and unflinching professionalism as one of the most respected journalists in sports media. she's navigated countless interviews, handled high-profile personalities, and mastered the art of staying calm under pressure. she is, also, widely admired in the paddock, for the genuine warmth she brings to every interaction. drivers, team principals, and staff alike have nothing but respect for her, drawn to her quick humor and deep knowledge of the sport.

but from the moment she meets franco colapinto, the effortlessly charming and notoriously flirtatious driver, she knows he’s going to be different.

he has a reputation: the charming, sharp-witted rookie who seems as at ease with a microphone in his face as he is on the field; he’s the kind of guy who never misses a chance to crack a joke or toss a playful compliment. for him, every interaction is part of the performance, and his banter with the press has become almost as famous as his achievements on the field, he’s quickly become a fan favorite both on and off the track. when he first meets with elaine, he's prepared for the usual routine of deflecting flirtation and steering the conversation back on track. but he knows she’s going to be different.

SCENE #1.

the paddock buzzes with activity as elaine step into view, her camera crew following closely behind, already recording. her warm smile, the one that wins over every driver, spreads across her face as she approaches him. she scans the crowd, but her eyes settle on franco, who’s leaning casually against the barrier, chatting with another reporter. he notices her immediately, straightening up a little, though trying to play it cool. there’s a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes, flashing a wide grin her way, the kind that’s just a little too charming, already anticipating the conversation.

she walks toward him after the reporter leaves, maintaining her serious expression despite the playful energy bubbling beneath the surface. “i’ve been trying to get an interview with you for a while now,” she says, her voice steady but teasing. there’s a glint in her eyes, but she holds back her smile, keeping things professional—at least for the camera.

“really?” franco’s voice is smooth, but his body language says more than his words. he shifts his weight, standing a little closer to her, his arm casually brushing against hers. he tilts his head, letting his gaze linger on her, his eyes scanning her face as if he’s trying to read her thoughts.

“yeah,” she nods, keeping a straight face, though there’s a lightness in her tone. “but you know, you were playing hard to get.”

franco smirks, stepping even closer, his body leaning in, a low chuckle escaping his lips. “me? i’d never play hard to get with you.” his voice drops just enough to make the words sound like a promise. his hand hovers near her arm, not quite touching but close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating from him. he’s using the excuse of the interview to close the gap, and she notices it.

“of course you’d say that.” her voice remains calm, unwavering, but inside, she feels the tension building. his presence is undeniable, but she’s determined to keep up the professional front, even though it’s becoming harder to ignore the way he’s leaning in, the way his eyes flicker from her face to the camera and back again, like he’s fully aware of the audience watching.

franco, still grinning, takes a small step back but only to tilt his head again, eyeing her playfully. “why? i’m being honest here,” he says, shrugging as if he’s confessing something. “i’ve been waiting for you to come over. every time i’m looking out for you, you’re always busy interviewing someone else.” his voice has dropped to a playful whisper now, but loud enough for the camera team to catch, as if he’s letting the viewers in on an inside joke. his fingers graze her chin, a small, thoughtful gesture, but she can tell he’s watching her closely, waiting for her reaction.

she fights the urge to smile, keeping her expression neutral. “that’s how jobs work, franco. you know that.” her voice is light, but her eyes remain locked on his, daring him to push further.

he laughs, his body language loose, but she can sense the focus in the way he’s standing—completely tuned in to her. “you sure it’s just the job, or are you just trying to keep me waiting?” he winks, and for a moment, the playful flirtation between them seems almost palpable.

she raises an eyebrow, her lips pressed together in an amused but serious line, refusing to let him get the upper hand. the camera crew captures everything, but it feels like the world has shrunk down to just the two of them in that moment. there's a lightness in between, the flirtation woven through her words, but beneath it, a genuine connection. the atmosphere around them fades into the background, both caught in this playful back-and-forth, completely at ease despite the cameras rolling.

franco watches her closely, clearly amused by her refusal to break character, but he’s not backing down either. he takes a step to the side, casually leaning against the railing, his body angled towards her, arms folding across his chest in a way that draws attention to his relaxed confidence.

“keep you waiting?” she tilts her head slightly, her tone dry, but the teasing in her eyes gives it away. “you think i’ve got time to keep anyone waiting?”

franco laughs softly, his eyes never leaving hers. he’s fully aware of the camera team recording every word, but he seems to enjoy the game more with the audience. “you’re right,” he says, his voice low and smooth. “i’m the one waiting, not you.” he shifts his weight again, this time leaning just a little closer, his arm brushing against hers again—but this time, it feels more deliberate. “i guess i just like waiting for you.” the words are casual, but the way he says them, with that small, knowing smile, feels like a challenge.

she keeps her expression neutral, but the playful tension is unmistakable now. “is that so?” she asks, raising an eyebrow as she finally meets his gaze head-on. she can feel the camera crew just behind her, recording the whole exchange.

he shrugs, letting his eyes drift slowly down to the microphone in your hand before returning to her face. “you’ve got my attention now,” he says, voice softer, almost as if the cameras aren’t there. “what’s next?”

she pauses for a moment, pretending to think, then finally cracks the smallest smile, enough to show him that he hasn’t completely worn her down yet. “what’s next?” she echoes, leaning in just slightly. “the interview, obviously. try to keep up, franco.”

he chuckles again, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his grin doesn’t fade. “alright, alright,” he says, the playful glint in his eyes growing stronger. “but i’ve got to say, i think i’d prefer it if you just kept me waiting a little longer.”

she shakes her head, amused, and lifts her microphone again. “i’m sure you do,” she replies, still professional, but now with a smirk just barely tugging at her lips. the camera crew catches the moment, and she can already imagine the headlines—viewers love this kind of banter.

he shifts closer one last time, just enough to make it clear he’s still playing this game with her. “you know, if you ever get tired of interviews… we could always talk off the record.”

she gives him a long look, narrowing her eyes slightly as she raises the microphone to his face, her voice cool and composed. “let’s start with on the record, shall we?”

he laughs, a warm, genuine sound, but she can see the spark in his eyes that says he’s far from done. the camera crew continues filming, but in this moment, it’s all just part of the fun. the interview has begun, but the real game is still unfolding.

SCENE #2.

the second interview starts as elaine spots franco in the paddock again, and this time, there’s a different energy between them—something more familiar, more playful, after your first meeting. the camera crew is behind her once more, recording everything, but she has learned by now that franco loves the game, and today is no different.

she approaches him with her usual confident stride, the microphone ready, her serious face firmly in place, even though she can feel the anticipation.

“franco,” she greets him, keeping her voice smooth and professional.

“elaine, hi.” he responds, his smile instant, the warmth in his voice impossible to miss. there’s something about the way he says her name, as if he’s been waiting for this moment again.

she glances at him, arching an eyebrow slightly. “we’re meeting each other again,” she says, her tone light but teasing. “finally, dare i say.”

franco laughs softly, taking a step closer, his posture relaxed as always, but there’s a spark in his eyes as he responds, “i only ever want to see you in moments like this.”

“oh!” she’s taken off guard for a second but recovers quickly, maintaining her serious face.

he shrugs, his voice casual but carrying that familiar flirtatious undertone. “can’t you blame me? you’re one of a kind.”

her lips quirk slightly, but she doesn’t give in. “really? what about other kinds of situations?” she asks, tilting her head just a little, challenging him as she always does, the camera capturing the subtle tension.

franco’s eyes gleam, and he leans in, lowering his voice enough that it feels like the conversation is just between them—even with the crew around. “now you’re open to that?”

she holds his gaze, unfazed, the seriousness never leaving her expression. “i didn’t say that,” she replies, her voice even, but there’s a hint of curiosity beneath it. “i’m just wondering.”

the air between you shifts once more, charged with the same playful tension from the last encounter. franco chuckles softly, but this time, he doesn’t press further. she can tell he’s enjoying the back-and-forth just as much as she is. the cameras are rolling, but once again, it feels like the world has shrunk down, playing your game in the midst of the media frenzy.

franco’s smile deepens as her words hang in the air, and he steps just a little closer, still careful to keep it subtle for the cameras but enough for her to feel the shift in his energy. his eyes linger on hers, playful but with a new intensity.

“i think you’re doing more than just wondering,” he says, voice dropping lower, his tone teasing but with an edge that makes the moment feel more personal.

she doesn’t flinch, keeping her professional demeanor intact, though inside, she feels the tension growing. “that’s your interpretation,” she responds, her voice smooth and steady. “but we both know how interviews work, right?”

franco tilts his head, his gaze sweeping over her, amused. “is that what we’re calling this?” he laughs lightly, the sound warm, but his eyes remain locked on hers. “because this feels like something else.”

she raises an eyebrow, keeping her cool as she tilts the microphone slightly toward him. “oh? you think this is something more?”

he shrugs, his grin never faltering, but there’s something more deliberate in the way he leans in just a little further. as he speaks, his hand casually reaches out, his fingers wrapping around the microphone she’s holding, his touch firm yet playful. he doesn’t take it from her, but the gesture makes her heart skip for a moment. “let’s just say,” he murmurs, his voice low, “i don’t get this kind of vibe with anyone else.”

her finally allows herself a small smile, just enough to acknowledge his playful attempt. her grip on the microphone tightens just slightly. “vibe?” she echoes, pretending to mull over the word. “well, if that’s what you’re picking up, i must be doing my job right.”

franco chuckles again, but she sees in his eyes that he’s still not letting go of the game. “you’re good at your job, elaine,” he admits, a bit more seriously now, though his playful tone lingers. “but i’m not sure that’s what i mean.”

she narrows her eyes slightly, pretending to consider his words. “well, i’m not here to interpret feelings, franco,” she replies, her voice still measured, professional. “i’m here to ask the real questions.”

he smirks, clearly enjoying the banter. “okay then, ask away,” he says, spreading his arms slightly, as if welcoming whatever she’s about to throw his way. “hit me with your best shot.”

she pauses for a beat, still holding his gaze, the challenge hanging between them. “how about this?” she says, lowering her voice just a touch. “what’s it like knowing you’re the driver everyone’s watching this season after your unexpected jump to f1?”

he leans back slightly, his expression shifting as he switches to the more serious part of the interview, though she can still see that playful glint in his eyes. “it’s exciting,” he admits, finally breaking eye contact as he glances off to the side, his tone more thoughtful now. “a little nerve-wracking, too, if i’m being honest. but i’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life, so i’m ready for it.”

she nods, letting him speak as her camera crew captures his words, but even as the conversation turns more professional, she notices the underlying tension. it’s like the game never really stopped—it’s just paused for now.

“do you feel the pressure?” she asks, keeping her tone level but letting a hint of curiosity slip through. “knowing that so many eyes are on you?”

franco meets her gaze again, his expression softening slightly. “yeah, i feel it,” he admits. “but i think that’s part of what makes it fun. the pressure pushes you to be better. and… i’ve got good people around me.” his eyes flicker toward her for just a second, and she doesn’t miss the way his words seem to hold a double meaning.

she maintains her professional surface, but inside, the familiar game is still alive. “good people, huh?” she says, her voice steady. “that’s important.”

he nods, his smile returning, but there’s something softer behind it now. “yeah,” he says, his tone quieter but still light. “it makes all the difference.”

she holds his gaze for a moment longer before glancing down at her notes, signaling that the playful banter is over—at least for now. “well,” she says, shifting back into reporter mode, “i think that’s a wrap for today.”

franco’s grin widens, and as she lowers the microphone, he steps closer again, just for a moment, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “i’m already looking forward to our next interview, elaine.”

her smile—this time fully—allowing him that little victory. “i’m sure you are,” she says softly, before turning back to her camera crew.

SCENE #3.

elaine meets franco for another interview during a casual media day. it’s quieter than usual, with fewer cameras and press around, giving everything a more relaxed vibe. she sets up her microphone, preparing to ask him a standard question about his preparations for the upcoming race.

“franco,” she starts, flashing her usual friendly smile, “how are you feeling about this weekend? any special strategies for the race?”

but instead of answering her question seriously, franco leans back in his seat, a playful smirk curling at the edge of his lips. he doesn’t bother with the usual racing talk. “you know, i’ve been preparing for this moment—seeing you again,” he says, his voice smooth and teasing.

her laugh comes out naturally, caught off guard by the shift in conversation. she tries to stay composed, shaking her head slightly, but the comment lingers in the air between them. “franco, we’re supposed to be talking about racing,” she replies, though there’s a hint of amusement in her voice. she’s used to his charm by now, but today it feels different, bolder.

franco, far from backing down, leans in a little closer, his gaze holding hers with a new intensity. “what? you’re the one who keeps finding reasons to talk to me,” he says, his tone lighter but insistent. “i think we’re overdue.”

she raises an eyebrow, trying to keep the conversation on track, but her pulse quickens at the way he’s looking at her. his usual playfulness feels more deliberate, the line between professionalism and personal interest blurring.

“overdue for what, exactly?” she counters, her voice calm, but her heart isn’t. she’s not giving him an easy out, and she knows he’s testing her. he chuckles, clearly enjoying the banter.

“a real conversation, no microphones, no cameras,” he clarifies, his voice dropping slightly as if it’s just the two of them in the room. he’s serious, and she can feel it. his eyes haven’t left hers since the conversation started, and suddenly, the interview feels less like work and more like something else entirely.

elaine shifts, gripping the microphone a little tighter, trying to brush it off with another laugh. “is that your new strategy? charm your way through the season?”

he leans back, arms crossed, his grin unfaltering. “hey, i’m just playing to my strengths.” he flashes her a wink, making it clear he’s not just talking about his racing skills.

elaine glances at her camera team briefly, aware of the recording, but her mind’s already distracted by the shift in their dynamic. she takes a steady breath, maintaining her professional stance, but deep down, she knows franco has her cornered in a way she didn’t expect.

SCENE #4.

elaine steps into the interview space, all set to keep things professional as always, but there’s something different about franco today. his posture is more relaxed, leaning casually against a wall, and as she approaches, his eyes light up with that same familiar mischief, though now it feels heavier with intention. she notices the subtle change; the playful flirtation he once scattered freely with other journalists has all but vanished. by now, she’s the only one he reserves it for, and the realisation makes her heart skip a beat.

before she can even get her opening question out, franco interrupts, not missing a beat as he says, “you look gorgeous today, by the way. but then again, you always do.”

elaine is momentarily thrown off, her grip tightening slightly on the microphone as she processes his words. but her professionalism kicks in, and she brushes it off with a small laugh, her expression staying composed. “thank you, franco,” she replies, her tone polite but distant, trying to keep things on track.

he doesn’t let it go. he leans in just enough for their arms to brush, his smirk deepening as he adds, “i’m serious, elaine. it’s getting hard to focus on anything else when you’re around.”

her heart skips a beat, and she feels the warmth of his proximity, but she stays cool under pressure. she knows he’s trying to get a reaction, but she won’t give him the satisfaction that easily. raising an eyebrow, she tilts her head slightly, her voice smooth and teasing, “really?”

he chuckles, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth, his eyes locked on hers as if there’s no one else in the room. “let’s just say that doesn’t happen often with anyone else,” he replies, his voice dropping lower, as though they’re the only ones in on this private conversation.

her pulse quickens despite herself. the camera crew behind her is still rolling, and she knows every second of this will be captured, but franco doesn’t seem to care. there’s a daring edge to him today, a boldness that’s pushing the boundaries of their usual exchanges.

she takes a steadying breath, maintaining her professional demeanor, but there’s no denying the tension between them. “looks aside,” she starts, her voice firm but softening at the edges, “i’m here to talk about your race, not to boost your ego.”

franco grins wider, clearly not deterred. his hand briefly brushes against her arm again as he leans closer, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “who says you can’t do both?”

elaine huffs a small laugh, shaking her head as she refocuses on the microphone. “let’s keep this professional, franco.”

“sure,” he says, though his eyes tell a different story. the playfulness lingers in the air between them, and though she tries to push through the rest of the interview, there’s an unspoken tension that neither can quite ignore.

SCENE #5.

as the interview begins, franco leans against the wall, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes as she approaches. her camera team sets up nearby, but this time the atmosphere feels more relaxed, less formal, as if the race weekend has left everyone in a calmer mood.

she asks the first question about his performance, her tone professional, but with that familiar playful edge that always seems to bring out franco’s charm. he smiles through her questions, barely paying attention to the words. when she finishes, microphone in hand, he reaches out, gently taking hold of the microphone as if to steady it, but instead of letting go, he keeps his fingers wrapped around hers.

“there’s something i’ve been meaning to ask you,” franco says, his voice low, eyes locked on hers.

she blinks, slightly thrown by the sudden shift in tone. “oh? about the race?” she asks, her professional mask slipping just a little as she looks up at him.

he grins, shaking his head. “no,” he replies, his grip still firm on the microphone. “something a little more personal.”

she raises an eyebrow, trying to maintain her composure, though she’s acutely aware of how close he is now, the warmth of his hand next to hers. “go on,” she says, her voice steady despite the tension.

he leans in just a little closer, his grin turning playful but his tone serious. “when are we going to stop pretending these interviews are just about racing?”

she feels a flutter in her chest, but she quickly regains her footing, narrowing her eyes slightly as she tries to maintain the upper hand. “is that what you think we’re doing?”

he chuckles softly, his hand lingering on the microphone for a beat longer before pulling back slightly, though the space between them is still minimal. “i’m just saying… i think we’ve had enough interviews to cover racing. maybe it’s time we talk about something else. maybe somewhere quieter.”

her breath hitches, but she keeps her expression composed, giving him a small, teasing smile. “you have something in mind?”

franco’s gaze holds hers, his smile widening as he steps back just a fraction, giving her space but not letting go of the playful tension. “i do,” he says simply, “but it’s not really something we can talk about on camera, is it?”

her heart skips a beat, but she doesn’t let him see that. instead, she tilts her head slightly, amused. “i think you’re getting ahead of yourself.”

he shrugs, his confidence unwavering. “maybe. or maybe i’m just catching up to what we’ve both been thinking.”

she pauses, the weight of his words settling between them, but before she can respond, the camera team signals that they’re ready to wrap up. franco flashes them a grin, his usual media charm slipping back into place as he steps away, but there’s something unmistakably different in the way he looks at her now—something that lingers long after the interview ends.

SCENE #6.

as the sixth interview begins, there’s an unmistakable tension in the air. the setting feels quieter than usual, tucked away in a calmer part of the paddock. the hum of activity continues in the background, but here, it’s just franco, elaine, and her camera crew. the atmosphere feels more intimate, almost as if it’s just the two of them despite the cameras rolling. franco stands close to her, his energy brimming with the confidence he’s earned after a successful weekend. there’s something about the way he’s standing tells her he’s ready to push the boundaries further this time.

as elaine begins the interview, franco listens with a half-smile, his gaze never straying from her face. he answers her first few questions with his usual charm, but there’s a noticeable shift as the interview starts to wind down. instead of letting her wrap things up, he steps forward and takes hold of the microphone, stopping her in her tracks. his fingers brush against hers, and his smile widens as he keeps a playful grip on the mic.

“one last question before we finish up, elaine,” he says, his voice low and teasing, though his eyes are filled with a mischievous gleam. he doesn’t wait for her to respond, his gaze fixed intently on her, making sure she’s paying full attention. “when are you going to let me take you out?”

she blinks, momentarily caught off guard by the directness of his question. the cameras are still rolling, and she knows her crew is watching. her professional mask stays firmly in place, but there’s a flicker of surprise in her eyes as she glances at him, not sure whether to laugh or call his bluff.

franco doesn’t back down. if anything, her silence only fuels his confidence. he leans in just a little closer, his voice dropping to a more private tone. “i mean, we’ve done enough interviews by now, haven’t we?” his fingers remain on the microphone, his touch lingering. “don’t you think it’s about time we see each other outside of work?”

she tilts her head, her lips parting as she considers how to respond. she knows franco has been flirty before, but this—this is different. this is more direct, and he’s not hiding behind playful banter this time. there’s no subtlety, no room for her to misinterpret his intentions. she could brush him off with a witty remark, like she usually does, but the way he’s looking at her—so certain, so bold—makes her pause.

her camera crew stays silent behind her, but she can feel their eyes on the two of them. still, it’s as if the rest of the world has melted away, leaving only them in this charged, electric moment.

“i see,” she says finally, her voice steady though her heart races. “so this is your big question? the one you’ve been waiting to ask?”

his grin widens, and he nods, not even pretending to be bashful. “it’s the only one that matters, really.” his hand drops from the microphone, but he doesn’t step back. he holds her gaze, waiting for her response, as if daring her to either accept his offer or shut him down.

she takes a breath, then exhales slowly, her eyes narrowing playfully. “well,” she says, her tone light but with an undercurrent of something more, “i suppose i could consider it… if you can survive another interview.”

franco chuckles, the sound deep and rich as he leans back slightly, still keeping that air of confidence. “oh, i’ll survive,” he says, flashing her one last grin. “but i’d much rather we skip to the part where i get to take you out.”

the tension lingers as the interview ends, the flirty exchange hanging in the air long after the cameras stop rolling. elaine may still be in control, but franco has made his intentions clear—this wasn’t just another interview. and judging by the way her eyes linger on him, there’s a part of her that doesn’t want to brush him off so easily this time.

SCENE #7.

the interview begins like any other. elaine approaches franco with her usual composure, ready to dive into another conversation about the upcoming race. but today, there’s a subtle tension in the air, something unspoken lingering between them from their previous encounters.

as she greets him, microphone in hand, franco’s eyes immediately lock on hers, that playful glint back in full force. “elaine,” he says smoothly, “i was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

she smirks, raising an eyebrow. “avoiding you? you’re impossible to avoid.”

franco laughs softly, his gaze never leaving her. “and yet, you manage to always keep your distance.” there’s a teasing edge to his words, but something else too, something more serious.

she moves to start the interview, but franco takes a step closer, his hand casually reaching out to brush against hers. the touch is brief at first, but enough to make her pause. she glances down at their hands, a slight flutter in her chest, but she tries to maintain her professionalism, focusing on the task at hand.

“so, franco,” she starts, trying to regain control of the situation, “how are you feeling about this race? confident, as always?”

he doesn’t answer immediately. instead, his fingers lightly graze hers again, this time more intentional. before she knows it, he’s gently holding her hand, not forcefully, but enough to make her heart skip. her breath hitches for a second, and she glances up at him, but he’s already watching her with a grin that’s both charming and undeniably bold.

“you know, i could talk about the race,” franco says softly, his voice low, as if the two of them are the only people in the room. “but i think we’ve had enough of that, don’t you?”

elaine tries to pull her hand back, but he holds it for a moment longer, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. it’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but it sends a shiver down her spine. “franco,” she starts, trying to steady herself, but the teasing light in his eyes tells her he’s fully aware of what he’s doing.

he leans in slightly, closing the space between them just enough to feel his presence more than ever. “what if, just this once, we forget about the race? talk about something else... something more interesting.”

elaine’s heart is racing now, the intensity of the moment catching her off guard. she knows the camera is rolling, but for a split second, she forgets about everything else. “like what?” she asks, her voice quieter, betraying the calm exterior she’s trying to maintain.

his smirk deepens, and he gives her hand one last squeeze before finally letting go. “how about that dinner we’ve been talking about? you can’t say no forever, elaine.”

she blinks, regaining her composure, and steps back just enough to create some distance, though her heart is still racing from the brief but electric contact. “we’ll see about that,” she replies, her voice stronger now, though there’s a lingering warmth where his hand had been.

franco grins, clearly satisfied with the effect he’s had on her. “i’ll take that as a ‘maybe.’”

the interview resumes, but neither of them can ignore the unspoken tension that now sits between them, even as the cameras roll and the questions continue.

FINAL SCENE.

from the moment the cameras roll, it’s clear that today, franco isn't holding back. his confidence is palpable, his eyes locked on hers as if the world outside the interview doesn’t exist.

“you know, we’ve danced around this long enough,” franco says, his tone playful yet sincere, the easy smile on his face revealing a deeper intent.

“danced around what exactly?” her tone is playful, but she knows exactly where this is going.

franco’s smile is different today—there’s no teasing, just an open honesty in the way he speaks. “when are you going to stop dodging my dinner invitations? you said one more interview and you’ll let me take you out and it’s been two already.”

elaine raises an eyebrow, amusement dancing in her eyes. “is this your way of trying to get an exclusive or something?”

franco chuckles softly, leaning in just a bit closer, his confidence radiating from him. “no, i’m serious. i’ve asked enough times, and you’ve given me the runaround. it’s time for a real dinner, just the two of us, no cameras.”

elaine laughs lightly, but there’s a spark of intrigue in her gaze. “and what makes you think i’d say yes now?”

franco steps a little closer, the warmth of his presence wrapping around her. “maybe because you’ve enjoyed our conversations just as much as i have. eight interviews later, don’t you think it’s time we had one without the cameras?”

she pauses, letting his words hang in the air for a moment, the tension palpable. finally, a smile breaks through. “alright, franco. dinner it is. but don’t think this means you’re off the hook for next season.”

his grin widens, genuine delight lighting up his face. “i’ll take what i can get. dinner it is.”

once the cameras shut off, the atmosphere shifts. franco doesn’t move away from her side. the energy is different now—calmer, more intimate. he’s always had a playful, cocky edge, but today there’s something deeper in the way he looks at her. he hands off the microphone to a crew member, his arm brushing against hers, sending a thrill through her.

elaine lowers the microphone, her professional demeanor softening. she’s always been careful to keep their interactions light and work-related, but tonight feels different, like a turning point.

“i never thought you’d actually accept,” franco says quietly, his gaze steady on hers, a hint of vulnerability beneath his usual charm.

elaine meets his gaze, feeling her guard beginning to lower. “what can i say? i’m full of surprises.”

as they stroll side by side, the conversation shifts. they talk about their careers, the crazy schedules that keep them both moving from one city to another, and how their paths keep crossing in the most unexpected ways. franco is more relaxed now, no longer the charming rookie trying to win her over, but just himself. elaine listens, her guard slipping down more with every word.

at one point, he gently reaches for her hand, testing the waters as his fingers brush against hers. she pauses for a brief second, her heart skipping a beat as she feels a rush of warmth at the contact. surprised but pleased, she lets him touch her.

“you know,” he says softly, glancing at her with a mix of seriousness and mischief, “i’ve been waiting for you to say yes for a long time, you know.”

she squeezes his hand lightly, a smile tugging at her lips. “maybe i was just waiting for the right moment.”

franco’s expression brightens, a spark of hope igniting in his eyes. “and what about now? do you think this is the right moment?”

elaine feels her heart flutter at the sincerity in his gaze. the playful teasing from their earlier interviews has melted into something deeper, something she has been longing for but hesitated to acknowledge. “i think it could be,” she replies, her voice softening.

he steps even closer, the warmth of his body radiating against hers. “good. because i can’t be any more obvious than i already am.”

elaine tilts her head, teasingly raising an eyebrow. “obvious? maybe you were just being charming—it’s hard to tell sometimes.”

his grin broadens, and he takes a small step closer, the air thick with unspoken tension. “charming, huh? i guess i’ll have to keep it up then.”

“don’t get too cocky,” she warns playfully, her heart racing at the way he leans in just a bit more. “i might change my mind.”

“not a chance,” he replies, his voice low and confident. “i’m determined now. i’ll make you see how good we could be together. you and me—it’s worth pursuing.”

©⠀piastrisun original work. please don’t translate, claim or repost any of my writing, 24’.

[artist-issues]

Meant to post this a long while back but seriously, what the heck with Ellie, why on earth did they kill the only other character with the same voice-acting chops as Sam’s, YEESH. RIP Ellie. 

[redvexillum]

@inuhalfdemon I knew I could count on you to spice things up a bit! Listen, you made @safination a very happy lil gal with this ask, I'll have you know. I'll even change it up from my usual style, and write this purely in Alastor's POV. Not sure if you like human Alastor, but I hope you do after this ☆ ～('▽^人)

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, blood play, ♡ral sex, unhinged!alastor, briefly imply cannibalism, infidelity, alastor has scars, unhinged!alastor, branding with knife, obsessive!alastor, period typical racism, maybe bordering yandare!alastor (?)

Alastor was going to kill you.  

He had no doubt about it. You, with your pristine life – riches, status, and a marriage that looked flawless from the outside. Everything about you seemed perfect, a picture of untouchable elegance.  

But Alastor knew the truth lurking beneath that polished exterior. He knew your husband was nothing more than a filthy, corrupt official – extortion, blackmail, murder of the helpless, especially those of colour. By association, you must have shared in his sins, whether by action or silence.  

For Alastor, his prey was always chosen with care. He wouldn’t dirty his hands with the innocent. His mother had raised him better than that. The streets were crawling with vile creatures, and there was no shortage of filth to cleanse. Killing wasn’t just a necessity – it was a thrill, a ritual he savoured.  

The sweet satisfaction of purging evil from the world, leaving it a little cleaner, a little darker, but always better. It was his art, his craft, and each kill were a masterpiece. You were supposed to be another one.  

He watched you, lurking in the shadows, memorizing every detail. The way your arm draped over your husband’s like a serpent coiling around its prey. That perfect smile – too perfect, like a mask you wore every day, hiding the darkness he knew must linger beneath. Alastor studied you relentlessly, plotting the exact moment to strike, the precise time to drag you into the depths of his bayou and erase that false, disgusting smile forever.  

But something shifted, something he hadn’t foreseen.  

One afternoon, as Alastor sat on a park bench, his lips curling into a grin behind his newspaper, amused at the latest article about the “Bayou Butcher,” he felt the sunlight dim. A shadow fell across the print. He looked up, ready to snarl at the interruption, but his breath caught.  

It was you, standing before him. Your fingers fidgeted nervously, a soft smile playing on your lips, and at that moment, you weren’t the victim he had imagined.  

“May I help you?” Alastor asked, his tone honeyed, concealing the whirlwind of confusion brewing inside. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Why was his prey coming to him? 

You gasped lightly, and then, as if the heavens themselves were laughing in his face, a giggle bubbled up from your throat – sweet, melodic... 

...Intoxicating.  

“Are you the radio broadcaster for station 66.6?” Your eyes sparkled with innocent excitement, that same radiant smile now directed at him.  

His lips twitched, the faintest flicker of amusement and wariness passing through him. How had you recognize him? His voice was the only part of him ever to broadcast.  

Sensing his unspoken question, you raised a hand to your lips in apology, looking shyly to the side before meeting his gaze again. “I’m actually a good friend with Mimzy. When I told her I was a fan of your show, she pointed you out when you were at her speakeasy the other night.” You smiled nervously, twisting your hands together. “I wanted to approach you then, but...I suppose my nerves got the best of me.” 

At that moment, something in Alastor changed. He convinced himself that this was fate. You, his prey, presenting yourself to him so willingly – it had to be a sign. And so, he entertained you, the perfect gentleman. He played his role as he always did, charming, polite, hiding his true intentions behind his ever-present grin. He would lead you into his bayou soon enough. Flesh and blood would be his reward.  

But somehow...the plan never quite happened. The weeks stretched on, one excuse after another.  

Next week, he told himself.  

Then... 

Next month.  

And the next. 

And the next. 

And now? Now, you were in his home – in his bed. The candlelight flickered, casting shadows that danced across the room. Your wedding ring winked at him from the dim light as your fingers reached out to him, your smile – damn that smile – still as enchanting as the first time you’d greeted him in the park. His pulse quickened, a thrum of something dark and dangerous lurking beneath his skin.  

Desire.  

Forbidden and all-consuming. It clung to both of you like second skin, wrapping around his and your hearts and pulled them deeper into its murky depths. The line between predator and prey blurred.  

Sinful.  

Wicked.  

Irresistible.  

You.  

Your soul was stained the same as his at that moment, soaked in the same shade of black, though Alastor’s - oh, his – was far darker. After all, how could yours compare to a man who had murder etched into his very bones? 

His bare skin pressed against yours, both of you entangled in the warmth of each other, every inch of him revelling in the feel of your soft, smooth curves. He inhaled sharply, his breaths unsteady, savouring the heat where your bodies met. His fingers traced along your hips, your thighs, as if memorizing each delicate slope. He could get lost in the feel of you, spend hours worshipping the perfection beneath his touch.  

His lips found yours, a slow, burning kiss that lingered before he dragged his mouth down the tender column of your neck, across your collarbone. Each kiss light, each kiss reverent. He explored the valley between your breasts with deliberate, maddening slowness. Each kiss sent shivers through you as he travelled lower, his breath brushing your skin.

When he reached your hips, he paused, eyes wild with hunger, before hooking your legs over his shoulders. His breath ghosted over your sensitive folds, teasing, tempting.  

How did he get here? 

His fingers tightened around your hips, holding you firmly as he leaned in, his lips pressing a feather-light kiss against the swollen tip of your clit. This wasn’t what he had imagined when he’d thought of indulging in your flesh, not like this. But now, he couldn’t stop.  

He was needy.  

Ravenous.  

Consumed by a hunger that went far beyond flesh.  

“Al...” you breathed, your voice soft and sweet, like the wind whispering through the trees of his bayou. The sound of your voice sent a jolt through him, tugging at something deep inside, something primal. He wanted to drown in that sound, let it wrap around him like the humid air of home.  

His mouth pressed against your slick folds, his tongue sweeping between them with aching slowness. The hitch in your breath, the soft moans that escaped you – they drove him mad. 

More.  

He wanted more.  

He needed it.  

Every reaction, every sound, it wasn’t enough. He craved everything you had to offer.  

But his eyes caught the flash of gold – the wedding band still clinging to your finger like a sick reminder. The sight of it made his chest tighten with rage, his hands twitching with the urge to rip it off and toss it into the swamp. But instead, he closed his eyes, shutting out the thought, focusing on you. He focused on the heat of your body, the taste of you, as his tongue lapped at you, deeper, stroking every part of your trembling core.  

A low moan escaped him as his tongue dipped further, swirling around the most sensitive part of you, eliciting another desperate, breathless sound from your lips. His cock was aching, painfully hard, but all he wanted, all that mattered, was your pleasure. Your moans, your writhing body beneath him, the way your fingers curled into the sheets.  

Your everything.  

More.  

It was the only word echoing in his mind as his mouth worked tirelessly, his tongue gliding, tasting, drinking in every drop of your desire.  

More. More. More.  

Perhaps it was because he knew – deep down – that no matter how much he craved you, you could never truly be his. You would return to your world, leave his bed empty, cold, and desolate once again. And each time, that dark, consuming desire to trap you here, to make you his forever, only grew stronger. Feverish.  

More.  

“Alastor,” your voice came out as a soft, pleading whimper, cutting through the maelstrom of dark thoughts swirling in his mind. That sound, delicate and needy, was never enough to make him stop wanting more of you. His lips parted from your core, a thin, glistening strand of saliva and your slick connecting the two of you before it broke, hanging in the air like the tension between the both of you.  

“I want to please you too,” you murmured, your voice tender, your eyes warm and filled with a quiet devotion. You smiled softly, your hair – usually neat and perfect – now loose and wild, framing your flushed face with strands that had escaped in the heat of the moment. You shifted, the bed creaking beneath you as you leaned forward, pressing your body against him, your warmth melting into his bare chest.  

Alastor’s breath hitched, feeling the press of your soft curves against him. Slowly, deliberately, he guided you down with him until you lay on top of him, bodies entwined in shared heat. His cock throbbed insistently against your belly, but he ignored it for a moment, letting his fingers weave through your messy hair. He gently stroked the strands, savouring the intimacy of the moment, before planting a tender kiss on your forehead. The sound of your giggle – light and sweet – filled the room, sending a rush of satisfaction through him.  

More.  

The thought lingered, twisting like a knife in his chest. He could kill your husband, make him disappear. The idea came easily, a whisper of violence mixed with longing, the dark fantasy taking root in his mind. He chuckled then. Perhaps, it had already taken root and has now blossomed into a beautiful thought of a world where he was drenched in your husband’s blood.  

You shifted, lifting yourself just enough to brush your fingers over one of the many scars that marked his skin. Your eyes sparkled with curiosity and mischief as you traced the rough line with delicate fingers.  

“How did you get this?” you asked, your voice soft and gentle before pressing a kiss to the scar, your lips warm against his skin as you followed the path leading dangerously close to his aching cock.  

Alastor chuckled darkly, his grin sharp as he watched you, mesmerized by your touch. “Got into a little scuffle when I was younger,” he replied, his voice low, filled with amusement. Your lips formed a pout, then softened into a kind smile as you kissed the scar again.  

“It doesn’t hurt anymore?” you asked, running your fingers back and forth across the jagged edge.  

“No,” he whispered, guiding your head with a teasing hand, urging you toward his throbbing length. “Haven’t thought about it in years.” In truth, the only thing burning in his mind was the revenge he had taken, the satisfaction of ending the lives of those who had hurt him once his mother was no longer there to hold him back.  

You hummed softly, and then your warm, soft lips kissed the head of his cock. His breath hitched as your fingers wrapped around him, stroking gently while your tongue flicked out, teasing, tasting him. The sensation was electric, making him shudder as you dragged your wet tongue along the head of his cock, your touch slow and deliberate, designed to drive him mad.  

Could he kill your husband? Would that mean you would finally be his, completely? The thought grew within him, louder and louder, until it was all he could think about – obsess about. His eyes flicked to the golden band still shackled around your finger, a symbol of everything that stood between him and what he truly wanted.  

You closed your eyes, your lashes brushing your cheeks as you took him deeper, your lips forming a tight, wet seal as you began to suck, your mouth hot and exquisite around him. A sharp breath escaped his lips, his hand trembling as he stroked your hair, his other hand gripping the sheets beneath him.  

“Cher...” he groaned, the word a strained whisper as he fought to contain the chaotic storm of emotions swirling within him. His feelings for you were growing, spiralling out of control with each passing moment. He was falling into something dark and dangerous, something that felt too close to obsession – hah! – no, it was already an obsession.  

The wet heat of your mouth, the way you moaned around him, it was driving him wild. He wanted you in every possible way – mind, body, soul. Every inch of you, every whisper, every smile. More. Always more.  

But even then, he knew it would never be enough.  

His eyes roamed over the scars that marred his body, a patchwork of memories etched into his skin. Each one told a story, some of the prey fighting back, others from the cruelty inflicted on him for being born into a world that saw him as lesser. They were his reminders – marks of his survival, of the battles won, and the punishments endured.  

But now, his gaze drifted to you. Your fingers, soft and pristine, wrapped around his cock, your clean cuticles and neatly trimmed nails standing in stark contrast to his scarred body. A thought flickered in his mind – wouldn't it be beautiful if he had something that reminded him of you, something permanent, something he could see on days when you weren’t with him? 

“Cher,” he called out softly, his voice a desperate whisper. “Cher,” he repeated, his tone filled with need, and his breath jumped sharply as your mouth took him deeper, the feel of your throat tightening around him sending a shock of pleasure up his spine.  

You looked up at him, his cock buried deep in your mouth, glistening under the dim flicker of candlelight, and he felt the image burn into his mind. The sight of you like this – lips swollen; eyes glazed with lust – it was a sight he never wanted to forget.  

But then, with a slow and gentle motion, he pulled himself from your mouth, watching as your lips parted, slick and bruised from your ministrations. He leaned over, his hand searching the drawer of his bedside table until he found it – a small wooden handle sheathed in leather. Unsheathing the blade, he held it out to you.  

Your brow furrowed, confused, your head tilting slightly as questions danced in your eyes, though none found their way to your lips.  

“Evidence,” Alastor murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, placing the knife in your hand with reverence. “Proof,” he continued, inching closer, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that felt both tender and tainted with the thrill of something darker. “Anywhere, love,” he whispered, his voice lilting with an almost jovial tone that belied the devilish intent behind his words. “Anywhere you want, to show me how much you love me.”  

Your lips trembled; your hand unsteady as you seemed to process the weight of his request. “It’ll hurt,” you murmured, your voice barely audible as you traced the dull side of the blade along his inner thigh, testing the sharpness of the blade. 

But then, Alastor saw it – the flicker of something dark behind your eyes, the same gleam that had sparked the first time you’d broken your marital vows for him. You were his – his little devil, his wicked temptation, his. 

A slow, wicked grin spread across your lips as you pushed him back onto the bed. “Anywhere?” you cooed, your voice a sultry tease as you bowed your head, your tongue flicking out to lick the base of his cock. The contrast of your warm tongue and the cool blade was intoxicating.  

His heart pounded, each throb sending a pulse of arousal through him, as you pressed the flat edge of the blade against the head of his cock, teasing him with the threat of pain. His cock twitched in response, a bead of pre-cum forming at the tip, and you seemed to sense his desire. You continued your slow, torturous licks, kitten-soft, while pressing the sharp edge of the blade against his inner thigh.   

Alastor hissed as the first slice cut into his skin, sharp pain blooming in his flesh, but it was drowned out by the pleasure of your mouth on him. Your lips enveloped his balls, sucking gently, your tongue tracing delicate patterns that made him groan. The mix of pain and pleasure twisted inside him, creating a heady blend that left him breathless.  

Each stroke of the blade was purposeful, each cut sending a rush of heat through him. His hips rolled instinctively, thrusting into your mouth, seeking more of the pleasure you so expertly provided, even as the blade pierced and dragged across his skin. Blood trickled from the fresh wounds, warm and wet, but your tongue, your lips – they were his salvation amidst the pain.  

Twelve strokes. Twelve precise cuts. With each slice, the pleasure intensified, his groans turning into a melody of pleasure and pain. His body trembled beneath you, surrendering to the exquisite torment you dealt him, his desire swelling.  

More. Always more. And even then, it still wouldn’t be enough.  

The moment the bloody blade fell from your hand onto the bed, your fingers slick with his blood, you gripped his throbbing shaft, working it with slow, teasing strokes. Your lips were wrapped around him, tasting his arousal, his blood, as you bobbed your head up and down, your mouth a wet, heated heaven that he lost himself in.  

The pain from the cuts on his inner thigh faded into a distant, forgotten ache, drowned out by the overwhelming pleasure coursing through his body. His head fell back, lips parting as his breath came in ragged gasps, hips pushing forward involuntarily to chase the sensation of your soft, warm mouth. The slick, wet sound of your spit, the sticky remnants of blood on his thighs, the obscene wetness trailing down his cock – it all blurred together in a haze of ecstasy.  

With every thrust, every gurgle and moan, Alastor’s grip on control slipped further. His eyes squeezed shut, lost in the raw, primal swirl of base desires. And the thought – the beautiful, intoxicating thought – that now he had a scar from you, a mark that would outlast everything, including the tarnished band on your finger, that thought was his undoing.  

A deep, guttural groan ripped from his throat as he came hard, releasing in thick, hot spurts into your waiting mouth. You, always so good for him, took him in, swallowing every last drop, your lips and tongue devouring him with a devotion that made him weak. You were perfect for him, always.  

But he needed more – always more of you. He could never have enough.  

And tonight, he made a silent vow. He would kill your husband. No more waiting. No more pretending.  

As you pulled away from him, your lips slow to part from his cock, you licked them clean, flashing him a cheeky grin. “I think we should clean you up,” you teased, your voice soft, breathless, as you glanced at the mess of blood and cum staining the sheets, his thigh soaked in crimson.  

Alastor’s gaze drifted lazily down to the fresh wound on his inner thigh, a scar that would be his forever. He had to fight the urge to pull you under him and take you right then and there, to lose himself in you until morning came. His breath was shallow, his chest heaving, and a high-pitched laugh escaped him, tremors of delight rolling through his body.  

“Oh, cher,” he murmured, fingers tracing the new cut, still warm and raw. His tone was laced with affection, but beneath it, there was the dark swirl of possessiveness. His bloodied fingers caught your face, smearing crimson across your skin as he pushed you down onto the bed. The mattress groaned beneath your combined weight, sinking into the heat of the moment. “Cher, cher, cher,” he repeated, his voice dripping with laughter and madness, each repetition steeped in dark affection.  

His hands, now slick with his own blood, gripped your face with a possessiveness that bordered on feral, marking you with his blood as his lips descended on your skin. His mouth traced you hungrily, tasting, claiming every inch of you. Blood and lust mingled, and his touch, his kisses – they were everywhere, devouring, overwhelming.  

MINE.  

That was what your scar said to him. It screamed it – MINE. 

And at that moment, Alastor knew – this was your permission, your sign. He would kill your husband. He would make sure you were his.  

Forever.  

Mine.  

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

FUN FACT: Several months ago, I made a poll about what story I should write next. Human!Alastor and ABO was super close, but ABO won in the end. This one shot was actually a snippet of my story. Read this post here, if anyone is interested!

[acesofspadess]

Private not Secret

oscar piastri x artstudent!reader

warnings: PDA

summary: after telling Oscar you couldn't make it to the triple header, a surprise awaits him

You and Oscar had been dating for years now. Having met each other at 14 when he originally moved to England the moment you knew what dating was, you and him were. With Oscar pursuing his racing career and being gone a lot, your move to France for art school wasn’t to big of a difference for you. You both visited each other as much as your schedules allowed and supported each other's dreams the entire way through.

Life always had a way of connecting you and Oscar, having gone to the same school as Alexandra, Charles Leclerc’s friend when you met, and now girlfriend, you two quickly became best friends and graduated the school together.

Since Oscar joined McLaren you were at every race possible, the fans knew who you were, but the relationship was private. They saw more of you and Alex then they saw of her and Charles and you and Oscar.

The triple header had arrived, and you were finishing a painting you should have already finished. You had already told Oscar you wouldn’t make it to the triple header at all, but you wanted to be there for him and worked relentlessly through the Austin GP week and weekend to fly out to the Mexico City GP and surprise him.

You had planned everything out with Alexandra on how you would surprise Oscar, and finally, Thursday was here. Alexandra had snuck you into McLaren’s hospitality area while Oscar was busy with press obligations, the orange badge around your neck feeling both familiar and surreal as you scanned the room.

You straightened out your papaya-colored dress, the one Alexandra had helped you pick out with a grin and a teasing, “You’re really going to make an impression.” The color was unmistakably McLaren’s signature shade, and you hoped the small detail would make Oscar smile.

Charles and Alexandra had agreed to help capture the moment, with Charles stationed nearby, phone ready to film. You took a steadying breath, glancing at Alexandra, who gave you a thumbs-up before you saw her disappear into the corner with Charles, both ready to witness the moment unfold.

Your heart raced as you heard familiar footsteps approaching, and you shifted a little, trying to look casual, trying to blend into the scene even as you felt the anticipation bubbling over. And then, there he was, standing just a few feet away, with his McLaren jacket casually slung over one shoulder, clearly preoccupied with a conversation with Lando. He hadn’t noticed you yet, and you felt a mixture of nerves and excitement knot in your stomach as you waited for him to look up.

“Oscar,” you heard Charles say, a faint amusement lacing his voice, likely nudging Oscar’s attention in your direction.

Oscar turned, his gaze sweeping across the room in confusion—until his eyes landed on you. He froze, blinking as if trying to process what he was seeing. A beat passed, and his entire expression softened, disbelief and joy flickering across his face.

“Y/N?” he murmured, voice filled with a mix of wonder and excitement. And in that moment, it felt like the whole room faded away, leaving only the two of you.

You managed a little wave, your heart thundering as he closed the distance between you, his gaze locked on you like he couldn’t quite believe it. When he reached you, his hands immediately found your waist, pulling you close.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” he said, his voice just above a whisper, his hand moving to cradle your face gently. You noticed his eyes soften as he took in the papaya dress, a smile tugging at his lips.

“I wanted to surprise you,” you replied, grinning. “Did I succeed?”

Oscar let out a breathless laugh, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek. “Completely.”

And then, in an uncharacteristic move for him, Oscar leaned in and kissed you—right there, in front of everyone. His lips met yours with a mix of excitement and tenderness, and you felt the warmth of his hand on your cheek as he held you close, completely oblivious to the people around you.

You heard faint cheers and whistles from the background, with Charles likely adding his own commentary to the video. But Oscar didn’t pull away, only deepening the kiss, as if he didn’t care who was watching. When he finally leaned back, his forehead pressed against yours, he let out a shaky laugh.

“You really outdid yourself this time,” he murmured, giving you another quick kiss as his fingers laced with yours, still smiling. “Best surprise ever.”

You laughed softly, heart still racing as you took in the look in his eyes. “I love you so much.” He shook his head. “I love you, Osco.”

“It’s catching on!”

“Lando!”

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fan3 the most emotion we’ve ever seen oscar have

fan4 can we talk about her dress?! chef’s kiss

yourusername I love you

oscarpiastri I love you baby, thank you for the surprise

landonorris Osco😂

mclaren driver or pillow?

yourusername c) all of the above

[akamitrani]

— Backstage Pass —

David Howard Thornton x Fem!Reader (Pt.1?)

Warnings: Mild suggestive, flirting (and the massive amount of tension that comes with it), release of the tension, slow burn.

Summary: You manage to get backstage access to a Terrifier panel where David is present, you end up striking a conversation with him and one thing leads to another.

[A/N: Hi guys, this is my first ever published fanfic – Be kind ☠️ – Sorry if anything lol. Btw, I hope y'all like to read fr cuz this fanfic surely is for readers]

[ · · · ]

The low hum of the convention floor buzzed around you, but for the moment, it felt as though the world had quieted down. You stood backstage, just outside the makeshift white room where David was preparing for a panel at the horror convention. Your excitement of meeting the actor behind Art the Clown was palpable, it was the man himself – the warm, approachable, and genuine David

You had spent the better part of the day anxiously navigating your way through autograph lines, fan meet-and-greets and photo ops, but now, standing backstage, you had a rare chance to speak with him outside the chaos. You never expected an encounter like this but here you were, a quiet moment with the very man who had terrified and fascinated you all at once

David’s head peeked from behind the curtains, his bright blue eyes meeting yours – “Hey! You’re the one who was talking about makeup techniques earlier, right?” – his voice had a casual charm, free of any of the sinister vibes Art was known for

You nodded, a bit stunned that he’d even remembered you from earlier in the day – “I'm Y/N by the way... And yeah, I’m just starting to get into prosthetics, but I love how the horror community brings so many elements together”

He smiled, a grin that reached his eyes and softened the sharpness of his features – “Y/N. And oh I totally get that. There’s something about horror that feels like a puzzle, you know? Acting, makeup, lighting… everything needs to come together for the whole thing to work”

It felt like a small moment of mutual understanding, and you couldn’t help but feel drawn to his enthusiasm. Here was David, the man behind the terrifying clown, speaking with such openness.

“So...” – David said after a beat, his tone playful – “what’s your favorite kind of horror?”

“It’s a toss-up but I’d say psychological horror, something that messes with your mind, makes you question what’s real” – You said

He nodded thoughtfully, his expression turning serious for a moment – “Yeah, that kind of horror is powerful. But I have to admit, sometimes I miss just making people jump... It’s a bit of a guilty pleasure for me”

You laughed loud, the sound echoing through the quiet backstage space – “I bet! It’s a great feeling though, knowing you can make people react like that”

David’s eyes lit up, a mischievous glint appearing – “Well... I think we’ve got some time for a little more talking, but it’s not going to be quieter once the panel starts, I'll eventually get busy... You’re sticking around, right?”

You hesitated, the pull of curiosity and excitement making you eager to continue the conversation – “Of course! After the panel, would you like to talk more? What about... Grabbing a drink?”

David raised an eyebrow, the playful smile tugging at his lips again – “Perfect, was just thinking the same thing. And I could definitely use a quiet moment away from the crowd... There's a nice café nearby, just behind the building”

You felt a jolt of anticipation. This was no longer just a fan encounter. The conversation had shifted from polite exchanges to something more personal, a subtle invitation hanging in the air

“Perfect!” – You replied, feeling your nerves melt away – “See you there then”

“I'll be there as soon as the panel is finished" – He replied

[ · · · ]

sorry but I don't have the patience

to write a 'in between' lol

You entered the café David mentioned about earlier, the ambiance was calm as expected. Dave was already there tucked in a corner booth, his eyes eventually meet yours and he sweetly waves at you. Walking in his direction you sat down, wasting no time to start chatting. David had his hands wrapped around his coffee mug, leaning slightly forward, completely engrossed in the story you were telling him

“And that’s when I realized..." – you laughed, glancing down in embarrassment – “I’d been talking to the director with fake blood still smeared all across my cheek!”

David chuckled – “You’d fit right in on a horror set with a story like that” – he said, tilting his head with that trademark playful smile – “Sounds like you were born for the genre”

You felt a warmth rise in your cheeks, not just from the flattery but from the way he looked at you — as if you two were the only people in the room. For someone who could be so chillingly silent in his role as Art, David had an openness and kindness that made you feel immediately at ease

Both of you shared another laugh, you noticed his fingers drumming gently against the ceramic cup, a little habit he seemed unaware of. The small, endearing detail felt so far removed from the menacing persona he played on screen. In that moment, you wondered how many people really got to see him this way, relaxed and unguarded

“So” – David said, breaking the silence – “I have to ask... why horror? Why would you willingly choose a field that involves blood, guts, and a thousand ways to terrify an audience?”

You took a sip of your coffee, considering an answer – “I think it’s the honesty of it... Horror doesn’t hide from what people fear. It embraces it. And creating that… It’s almost like a dance between knowing what scares people and making them feel safe enough to face it. It’s–”

“Powerful” David finished for you, a look of understanding in his eyes – “Yeah. I think I know what you mean” – he paused – “That’s exactly what draws me to it. There’s something about the way people’s walls come down when they’re scared. You can see who they really are”

Your eyes met with his, a silence settled between you and him, charged with something unspoken. You felt a flutter of nervous excitement, this was David Howard Thornton, a master of horror, sharing his personal thoughts with you as if you were an old friend

“Hey-” – David’s voice softened, breaking the tension – “I just realized how late it’s getting. But honestly…” – He glanced down, almost shyly, before looking back up with a small grin – “I don't want this conversation to end just yet”

You hadn't realized how much time had passed, you feel your heart skip – “Me neither...”

He hesitated, then gave a casual shrug – “I have a bottle of wine back at my hotel...” – he said with a hint of playful mischief – “If you’re up for it, we could keep talking there... No pressure though — I promise I’m far less terrifying off the set”

You both laughed, but you felt a thrill run through your body. You weren’t entirely sure what to expect, but the invitation in his eyes, the warmth in his smile, left little room for doubt

“Well...” – you said, mirroring his grin – “as long as you leave the clown mask behind”

David let out a low, warm chuckle and reached out, his hand brushing against yours just briefly – “Deal.”

[ · · · ]

at the hotel

The elevator doors slid open, then shut with a soft thud – the hum of the machine filled the otherwise quiet space between you both. David stood closer, his presence palpable as the two of you ascended to the upper floors. You could feel the heat of his body next to yours, the subtle hint of his musky cologne, the faint rustle of his clothes as he shifted slightly

The tension from the café was still there – unspoken, but thick. You could both feel it in the air, like an electric charge that had been building ever since the moment you'd first exchanged words. But now, in this small quiet space, it was almost impossible to ignore

David caught your eye, a soft smirk playing at the corner of his mouth – “I’m glad you agreed to come. It’s nice to get away from the madness for a bit you know”

You nodded but you could feel your heart rate picking up, the proximity between you and him making your thoughts scatter – “Yeah, it’s… really nice” – your voice sounded quieter than usual, and you couldn’t help but notice how close he is standing, how his shoulder brushed against yours every so often

The elevator dinged, signaling the arrival at David’s floor, you both stepped out. David led the way to his room, his long strides confident, though there was a subtle energy about him – something different than the actor you’d seen on stage. The man before them now seemed grounded, a little more vulnerable, but still just as captivating

As you two reached the door, David turned to you with a quiet smile – “Make yourself at home” – he said, pushing the door open and holding it for you to enter. The room was cozy, warmly lit

You stepped in, the scent of fresh linen and something faintly musky lingering in the air, his cologne you thought. You took a moment to glance around but David was already moving toward the small bar area by the window, pouring two glasses of wine

“Care for something?” – he asked, glancing over his shoulder with a playful glint in his eyes

“Sure, why not?” – You replied, voice a little breathless. It was hard to focus on anything other than the man before you, the way he moved, how effortlessly he carried himself. It was a strange mix of charm and allure, the kind of presence that seemed to draw people in without effort

David handed you the glass, his fingers brushing for just a second longer than necessary. His touch lingered, and you both looked up at the same time, locking eyes. There was something in his gaze – soft yet intense.

“Cheers” – he murmured lifting his own glass, clinking your drinks together

The conversation flowed easily at first, light and casual, but the air felt heavier now. David shifted slightly, moving a little closer as he leaned against the back of a chair, eyes never leaving yours. It wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, it was the opposite.

You set your drink down on the table, feeling a quiet tension building – “You know... I never thought I’d end up in a hotel room with someone like you”

David raised an eyebrow – “Someone like me?”

You laughed softly, a little nervous – “Yeah, someone so… different from Art”

David’s smile deepened, and he moved a fraction closer – “I think I’m a little more like Art than you realize” – he teased, there was a softness in his voice and a hint of something else, something that wasn’t just playful

“I don’t know…” – your voice faltering for a moment – “M-maybe you’re right”

David didn’t say anything for a moment, but his gaze darkened just slightly, his focus never wavering. He stepped a little closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the best way

“You know Y/N” he said quietly, almost a whisper – “I’m glad you stayed”

[···]

The silence between you both thickened, hanging in the air. David's gaze softened, his lips parting slightly as though he was considering something. Drawn to the warmth of his presence, you got closer. David didn't move away. Instead, he stood perfectly still, giving you space to decide what to do next. A quiet hunger in the way he looked at you.

“I dont want to rush this” – David said softly, voice low and deliberate – “But, I can't pretend I'm not completely drawn to you”

You reached up, fingers brushing against his arm, the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric of his shirt. David inhaled sharply, his body tensing just a bit at the contact.

“Are you sure?” – he whispered, his hand reached out, fingers barely grazing the edge of your wrist. You nodded, voice barely above a breath – “Yeah, I'm sure.”

David's hand gently cupped the side of your face, thumb grazing the curve of your jaw – savoring every second. David's face was so close now that you could feel his breath against your skin.

His lips brushed against yours, soft and tentative at first. His hands slid down, pulling you closer. He grabs your waist hard and you accidentally let out a small moan... That's when he finally kisses you, letting out a low whimper himself. The kiss gets deeper, sucking and biting. You respond instinctively, fingers threading through his gray hair, drawing him in as the kiss became more urgent, more desperate.

You break the kiss for a moment to catch your breath, foreheads resting against each other and trying to collect yourselves. This had been building all night, ready to break.

“You're incredible” – David murmured, his voice thick with desire

You met his gaze – “I can say the same about you”

“I've wanted this all night” – He confessed

David's hands slid down your back, guiding you firmly towards him, towards his thighs. Now straddling him, your fingers tightened in his hair as his hands moved, exploring the curves of your waist, savoring every detail about it. His hands slid down your dress, up your thighs and finally resting on the hem of your panties... His eyes pledged for yours, for assurance – You nodded

“You're not going to regret this” he whispered

[latenighttalking00]

A Work of Art

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Fem! Reader

Summary: You are a Marchioness from france and your mother is adamant that you wed. She is a very close friend of the Dowager Vicountess Bridgerton who has so generously agreed to be your sponsor for the season. Perhaps in doing this, she has unknowingly found her son's perfect match as well.

Warnings: slow-ish burn, friends to lovers, smut, 18+, minors dni, hair pulling, possessive/dirty talk, fingering, oral (f receiving). This is just porn with a plot.

Word Count: 2k

Author's Note: Hi! This is my first time writing, so apologies if it's a bit rough; English isn't my native language. Hopefully, you all absolutely drool over Benedict the same way I do. enjoy!

Once the social season had begun its approach, you and your family make haste on your return from france. Due to your newly given title, you are projected to be quite the diamond this season indeed.

As a close friend of the family, the Dowager Viscountess, Violet Bridgerton kindly offers to sponsor your debut this season, meaning that it is now of the utmost importance to arrive promptly at the Bridgerton home in London before the season is to begin.

As you sit in the drawing room, awaiting the next potential suitors you will inevitably send on their way, the clear and evident dread in your expression does not go unnoticed by your mother. A quick swat to your knee from her fan catches your attention, a visible look of warning on her face as your eyes meet hers.

"I do hope that attitude of yours is quick to dissipate." She sighs, "Men will find you quite inadequate to wed if you are to continue this ridiculous behavior. It is quite unladylike." Your mother's words cut right through you as if she had taken a hot paring knife to both of your ears. Not being able to withstand it any longer, you quickly stand from your seat and interrupt her.

"Mother, this gown and the line of men outside the door are quite suffocating enough; no need for your incessant nagging as well." You take a moment to pause, regaining your composure.

"I believe I am feeling quite faint; perhaps I've seen enough suitors today." You threaten rather than suggest, "I will return to my chambers and perhaps get a bit of rest seeing as the sun has already began it’s departure from the sky."

You bow and quickly excuse yourself before making haste out the door, walking as fast as your feet can take you, right past the men who are practically begging for just a minute of your attention.

You race directly to your bedroom, entering quickly and not even fully shutting the door before you are pulling down the zipper of your gown and letting it fall to the floor. "This retched thing must come off immediately," you mumble to yourself as you pull at the laces of your corset, loosening them just enough to slide off your body. A sigh of relief leaves your lips as you slip off your stays and slip on a beautiful white nightgown you purchased from one of the most talented modiste in france.

Shortly after the maids come to collect your gown, you are quick to wander down the halls in search of a cure to your relentless boredom. you find what appears to be an art studio and you are instantly overjoyed. you quietly sneak in through the door left ajar.

Art was your pride and joy; your sketches and the ability to produce beautiful works on canvas were the only things keeping you from becoming a mad woman.

Unbeknownst to you, Violet's second-eldest son and the owner of said art studio had just returned home from the gentleman's club. As he makes his way down the hall, prepared to return to his studio and peacefully finish up some things he started the night prior, he is met with complete and udder surprise at the sight of a woman flipping through his sketchbooks.

He feels as if the air has been knocked right from his lungs. Never once has a woman looked so real, raw, and simply ethereal to him in nothing but a simple yet elegant night gown, the pages in between your delicate fingers, the way in which you sit, your effortless and beautiful features, and the way they change and turn to show your focus, the true and utter intrigue at the charcoal etched on the paper is more than enough to bring a man directly to his knees.

He watches as you adjust your position, your nightgown sliding up your thighs as you cross a leg over the other. He feels as if he might faint.

“those are from my time traveling.” he points, making his way in to the room.

So lost in thought, you are quickly brought back by the sound of the deep and sultry voice coming from the hallway, it sends chills down your body, you are unable to fight the butterflies in your stomach and are completely unprepared for what you’re eyes are met with the second they dare to leave the pages in front of you. He is perhaps one of the most beautiful men you have ever seen, the way his features darken in the dim candle light could cause scandal merely on its own.

As he makes his way over to you, you scramble to find any sort of words to not appear as a complete and udder fool. “désolée, my Lord. All this beautiful artwork caught my eye and i could not help myself.” your voice only making his new found attraction grow even stronger.

“Benedict Bridgerton..” he says just loud enough for you to hear. He is quick to take your hand in his, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“Miss y/n y/l/n” you respond, a blush creeps over your cheeks as your eyes meet his. Your name and accent are both very quick explanations as to why a very random beautiful woman was wondering in

his family home.

“Ah yes, the Marchioness from France. My mother has done quite a bit of boasting upon your arrival, i can now see why she was so keen on you being the diamond of this social season” he chuckled lightly “merci, Lord Bridgerton.” you offer him a warm smile as you place the sketch book in his hands.

Your hand grazes his and you feel as if your body is set aflame. You quickly fumble to stand, attempting to leave before any further scandal is to happen. he is quick to catch you by the arm, his light grasp more than enough to keep you in place.

“Please, stay as long as you’d like.” He offers, taking a step towards you, but you are quick to shake your head, knowing staying any longer may very well affect your title and rank during this very precious season.

“You are more than kind.” you place a hand over his and squeeze lightly. He leans even closer, your face mere inches from his. his scent fills your nose and you cannot control the heat that consumes your body, the sheer need you have for him in this very moment. “I must- i uh-..” he raises an eyebrow at your words. though his proximity fogs your brain, you attempt to compose yourself. “Perhaps i can show you some of my art in the duration of my stay here.“ he smirks, dragging his teeth over his bottom lip as he nods “if what you create is half as beautiful as you, my art will never hold a candle to yours.” he compliments.

Your breathe catches in your throat as his words. “..Benedict- Apologies, Lord Bridgerton..” you quickly correct yourself, the use of his first name not going unnoticed by him. “I’m sure both your and my Mother will have quite the earful if i am found in here, i must go.” Before he is even able to protest, you are gone.

As the days pass, You begin to consume his every waking thought, the sound of your voice, the feeling of your skin on his is burned in to his memory and he cannot shake his want for you.

Anthony is quick to notice his admiration, the wandering stares and close proximity immediately become apparent in Anthony’s eyes. As the family settles in the drawing room, Anthony is quick to pull His younger brother aside “You’ve grown quite close with Marchioness” Anthony offers his younger brother a warning glance and Benedict simply smirks in return “Brother, are you suggesting that i’ve compromised Miss y/l/n?” he laughs. Anthony in no way finds this amusing “See to it that your intentions are well thought out and you are thinking with your brain rather than something else. She is a Marchioness, toying with oversea affairs may be more than risky, even for a Bridgerton.” Anthony notes, the clear and evident weariness in his voice wipes the smile right off Benedict’s face

“Brother, do remind me. Did you not ask for one Sharma’s hand in marriage and then proceed to marry the other? You need not inform me on scandal for i am more than well aware of what i am doing.” he place a hand on Anthony shoulder and squeezes light before walking away.

time skip

Benedict does everything in his power to gain every fraction of your attention when it is available. The two of you spending more time together than any of the men attempting to court you. This new grown fondness blossoms quickly and Benedict soon becomes one of your most trusted friends. Spending late nights in his art studio, promenades in the garden, pall mall with his family. You’ve never felt more at home than with your dear Benedict and his lovely family. This fondness grows very quickly to something much stronger. Knowing Benedict’s stance on courting and marriage in general, you shake the thought. Knowing your dear friend will never see you as anything but.

While enjoying another late night in his studio, you can’t help but feel different. You both are well aware your time together is coming to end. Suitors begin growing impatient and proposals begin rolling in faster than the tide.

“I quite like Lord Lumley, he is handsome and he finds interest in poetry.” Benedict is quick to laugh “Lord Lumley is a dimwit after nothing but your title.” you wince at his words “Clearly he’s much more of a gentleman than you.” You tease, crossing your arms over your chest. “Excuse me?” he asks, the change in his tone sending heat right between your thighs. He rises from his place on the stool and saunters over to you, his large frame towering over yours.

“Repeat what you said.” he orders

“Ben i was merely kidding i-“ you stutter, his proximity making your skin feel as if it were on fire.

“Do not make me ask you again.” he warns, a smirk on his face

You are a bit taken a back by his demeanor but the insatiable desire in your body fills you with a sudden surge of confidence. “Lord Lumley is more of a gentleman than you, Lord Bridgerton.”

Benedict lets out a low chuckle before leaning down, his mouth right by your ear.

“Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps Lord Lumley isn’t plagued by the same un-gentleman like thoughts that fill my head the moment you step into a room.” he sighs, his breath on your skin only making matters worse.

Your hands find his half buttoned shirt and you press your hands lightly to his chest “Benedict.” you warn.

he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes with his own. Your noses practically grazing as he speaks. “Tell me now that you do not desire me.” His hands rest on either side of your face “Simply speak the words and i will respectfully withdraw and allow you to be with whomever you like but first you must tell me you do not desire me and you wish for me to leave you alone.”

“Ben.” You mumble quitely. Every feeling or emotion that the second eldest Bridgerton has ever caused immediately rises to the surface. At a complete loss for words, you do what you feel is right in the very moment and you bring your lips to his.

The kiss quickly fills with passion, weeks of hidden adoration and care comes bubbling over the surface.

“Marry me.” he say breathlessly as he breaks from the kiss. “You have shown me what is it truly like to admire a woman. To look at her and feel inspiration. To delight in her beauty. So much so that all of her defenses crumble and that you would willingly take on any pain or burden for her. To honor her being with your deeds and words. You make me feel what only a true poet describes." his works nearly bring you to your knees as tears threaten to escape your eyes. “I would move the heavens down to earth for you if i knew it would make you smile.”

“Benedict.. Je vous aime.” you reassure him “I love you mon chéri, more than the moon loves the night sky. You are my everything, my best-friend. I would give anything to be your wife.” He pulls you back in for another kiss which very quickly becomes heated.

He trails hot kisses all over your jaw, neck and bosom. “My beautiful Fiancée.” he mumbles, his wandering hands sliding their way up your thighs, threatening to breach the hem of your nightgown. You are immediately reminded of your current location and you push the dark haired boy back “Ben.. not here” you breathe out, The second Bridgerton son just smirks before kneeling down in front of you.

Unsure of what he’s planning, you remain silent, eyes trained on his as he begins trailing kisses up from your ankle to your inner thigh. His hands trail up the back of your legs, giving your ass a playful squeeze as he reaches it, causing a gasp to escape from your lips.

The mere sight of him like this sends heat directly between your thighs, all logical thinking thrown out the window as he begins to tug your panties down your thighs. A blush creeps over your cheeks and your hands find his hair, tugging lightly. Benedict continues with no hesitation, pressing light kisses all over your inner thighs, leading right up to your aching core. You’re unable to fight back the sounds that leave your lips as you feel his tongue pressed against your clit. “Christ Benedict… you’re going to be the death of me.”

He wastes no time, lapping, kissing and sucking at your soaked heat as strong hands grip on to your thighs, throwing one of your legs over his shoulder. You lean against his desk to keep yourself upright while quiet moans and whimpers escape your lips, your hands pulling and tugging at his messy black hair, only encouraging him more. He pulls back only for a moment to look up at you “You taste fucking divine, my beautiful work of art.”

He is quick to return to your soaked heat. As his tongue works relentlessly on your clit, he slowly pushes two fingers inside of you, giving you a moment to adjust before slowly thrusting them in and out. Shortly after, you feel an unfamiliar knot form in the pit of your stomach and Benedict is aware immediately due to your incoherent mumbles and the way you clench around his fingers. “That’s my girl..” he says breathlessly “just like that..” After hearing his words, you completely unravel, shaky moans escape your lips as one hand grips on to the table and the other with a tight hold on your Fiancées hair.

Once your body has relaxed, he gently pulls your panties back up before standing to face you. You watch as he brings his fingers to your mouth “Open.” he commands and you immediately oblige, opening your mouth as he slides his fingers past your lips. The unfamiliar taste and the sheer sight in front of you causes a blush to fall over your face. He removes his fingers with a groan and offers your a smirk “You, my dear Fiancée are going to be the death of Me.”

A/N: Hi guys! I really hope every likes this :) if you have any request, feel free to send them to me :)