#words are challenging

[carsonjonesfiance]

“This thing is legally dubious and therefore technically unenforceable.” Is not a “useless liberal gotcha” it’s how legalism works in this country. Tying up stupidly worded EOs in court is the quickest way to keep them from being implemented. It is the definition of “doing something.” But it doesn’t usually involve much tweeting so of course a certain type of leftist feels obligated to mock it.

[mythicalcoolkid]

You don't wish your disability was worse or more visible, you wish your disability was taken seriously. Please stop confusing the two, I guarantee you would not get the support you need JUST by being more severe or more visible. Please listen to visibly disabled people when we tell you it isn't better on our side

[night-the-starfish]

When two worlds meet, markers on paper.

[frumblebee]

i think my desperation and desire to create something with what i deem has “substance and meaning” prevents me from finishing anything, because in my eyes, the things i write feel juvenile. feel shallow. i wish i had a talent for being able to convey my feelings in a cohesive and lyrical way. i just want to write beautiful things and create beautiful art.

[sopuu]

the stones are in order

[venusaur-propaganda]

Drawing Venusaur with every Pokemon pt. Venusaur!

[lvve-talks]

WINNER TAKES ALL ·⁀ ༄.°🎾 ₊⭒˚｡⋆

🏸˙✧˖° ༘ ⋆｡˚ coach!art x reader x tennisplayer!rafe jealous art, age gap (art is mid-late 30s, you and rafe are 20s), voyeurism, art calls rafe "kid" but everyone is adults!!, 18+ mdni it's my birthday!! so nothing better than something incredibly self indulgent for my first real smut (,,>ヮ<,,)!

you're art donaldson’s star student

the brightest star in his sky, damn the sun

he thinks you're an angel come down to earth, flying through the air in those little white pleated skirts

golden, perfect, pure

and then rafe cameron came along

all cockiness and aggression, if his rich parents weren’t paying him so much for private lessons, art would’ve dropped that bastard long ago

rafe had his sights set on you since the very first day he arrived to the court for lessons with art and there you were finishing up your own

little white pleated skirt that showed a glimpse of your underwear every time you jumped to return a ball

he makes sure to talk you up while you’re packing up your things, all dazzling, country club smile

you find him pretty, a little rough around the edges, but you knew the type of guy he was. spoiled rich boy with eyes that looked like they were hiding something

immediately art didn’t approve. watching from across the court with eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching extra tight with each chew of that minty gum in his mouth

art said rafe was a bad influence on you despite him being the one infatuated by his much younger student

at least he was looking out for you. making you better. he could tell just by looking at rafe that he’d only make you worse

he typically tried to keep the two of you apart, keeping your interactions to a minimum, but he saw how you started taking more time to stretch after practice. drawing your lithe limbs above your head and bending extra low whenever rafe arrived for his lesson. lingering. waiting.

and every time he’d see rafe’s eyes on you he’d snap “let’s go, cameron, warm up.” making sure he was occupied with something else

then you suggested he double up your lessons. something about a scrimmage for practice. he said no for weeks as you kept bugging him about it “trust me, he’s nowhere near your level. it’s not going to do a thing for you.”

the day he finally gave in, he regretted it the second he saw rafe’s cocky smile directed right at you from across the net like he had a single chance. he watched you go easy on him for a full set before he told you off for it. “we’re not gonna do this if you’re not gonna play right. what did i tell you about creating bad habits?”

at least he got the satisfaction of watching you take rafe’s ego down a peg after that

but then… god help him.

he was walking by the locker room after practice, towel slung over his neck and racket bag on his shoulder when he heard it. it sounded like you were crying out in pain, and he nearly dropped everything to rush in and help you when he heard what came next. his voice.

“fuckk you’re so fuckin’ tight,” rafe groaned and art froze. he couldn’t move a muscle

he was standing just inside the doorway, unable to see wherever rafe had you pinned up against a row of lockers, just listening. he felt like such a pervert, but he couldn’t leave, not when you sounded like that

every whine and moan sounded like the choir of heaven in his ears, it could almost drown out each disgusting word the other boy was grunting in your ear

“you like this? letting me fuck your brains out where anyone could hear? what if coach heard his perfect angel getting railed like a slut in the locker room?”

he had to make himself leave after that. it was too close. and he was far too hard from hearing the way you cried out even louder at that

after that incident, your lingering after practice stopped altogether. instead, you were rushing off to the locker room. checking your watch every minute for the last ten minutes of your lesson. so much so he had to scold you for it. “you have somewhere to be?”

not only that, but rafe started showing up to his lessons late. swaggering onto the court with mussed hair and red marks half-way hidden under the collar of his polo

it was driving art out of his mind, making him more and more irritable with the kid, making him run extra drills over and over hoping his hands would bleed or something in his shoulder would tear and he wouldn’t be able to touch you like that anymore

it finally got to the point where he had to sit you down at the end of your lesson to have a talk. you were fidgeting in your seat on the bench, your gaze constantly flicking to your watch or back towards the locker rooms. your knee was bouncing so anxiously, he had to reach out and lay his big hand on your thigh to keep it still

“i don’t think rafe is a good influence on you, sweetheart,” says the perv who fists himself every night thinking about the way you sounded on someone else’s cock

you tilt your head in confusion at him, looking like the sweetest little puppy and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from squeezing your leg too tight

“i’m moving your tuesday lessons to mondays,” he finally says with a sigh. no more overlap with rafe. no more lingering, no more running off, all of your time would be his

“what?” you sputter. as long as you’d been with him you’ve had lessons every tuesday, thursday, and friday, and now all of a sudden he thinks he can change things with a snap of his fingers?

“rafe’s taking your spot so he can have the earlier time,” he sighs as if it’s all the rich kid’s fault and not his own selfishness

“why does he get priority?” you scoff. “and what the hell does this have to do with his ‘influence’ on me?”

“well, i know you have the availability on mondays and his parents are paying me a ridiculous amount of money for his slot. and don’t think i don’t see what’s going on here,” he gestures between you and the locker rooms with a flick of his finger

“what? what’s going on here?” you ask accusingly

“you’re ruining your focus on your game for some kid who couldn’t give a fuck about you. i can’t let you do this, sweetheart, you know you’re going places. only place he’s going is the country club,” art scoffs, his patience running thin

but you’ve heard enough, gathering your things and storming off to the locker rooms, leaving art to hang his head in his hands and remind himself that he’s doing the right thing

but this time when rafe’s late to practice, he’s already pissed off. five minutes late turns into fifteen and he can’t take it anymore, storming off the court and towards the locker rooms

he doesn’t bother stopping outside this time, walking right to the back of the room where rafe is busy plowing into you from the back, your hands splayed against the lockers as you’re bent over at the hips

art slams his hand against the hollow metal to catch your attention, both of your heads instantly shooting to the side to look at him with wide, shocked eyes

“what the fuck?” rafe grunts, stilling inside you, but art’s eyes are only on you. even as he says “you’re late.”

but you’ve had enough of his attitude today. the look in your eyes turns defiant as you hold his gaze, pushing your hips back against rafe’s again. “he’s busy.”

rafe grunts and grips your hips tighter, his gaze flicking between the two of you with his brows furrowed in confusion

art rolls his eyes at you, crossing his arms over his chest. “like he’s even getting you off like that,” he scoffed and rafe’s face scrunches up in offense, opening his mouth to protest, but then you’re grinding your hips back on him again and all he can do is groan

“how would you know, coach?” you dig at him again, eyes narrowing at him

“i know what pleasuring a woman sounds like,” he answers like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. and he knows you’re too competitive to not take it as a challenge

it doesn’t take long for art to have your back pressed up against those lockers, one knee pressed into your chest with his grip on your thigh and his length bullying you open

he drags his hips back slowly before snapping them up into you at an angle that makes you see stars, your nails clawing at his back as you cry out with each thrust

rafe’s watching your fucked out face over art’s shoulder, still almost too stunned by everything to do anything but fist his own cock at the sight

“feel what you were missin’ out on, baby?” art murmurs against your neck as he presses kiss after kiss to your neck, your jaw, your shoulder, wherever his lips could reach. “runnin’ off to let some spoiled kid rut into you instead of staying with me?” 

you could hear the possessiveness in his voice and it almost made you feel guilty for all those times you ran out of practice as fast as you could to meet with rafe instead. but then again you probably never would’ve had him fucking you this good without it

“‘m sorry, coach,” you whine in his ear and it makes him let out a low groan, his hips snapping up even harder at that. “fuck, you should be,” he huffs into your ear

his hand that’s not practically holding you up comes down between your bodies to rub at your neglected clit and you’re instantly clenching tighter around him, your head falling back against the locker with a clanging sound drowned out by a near pornographic moan. he curses lowly again at the feeling of you squeezing around him like a vice grip, and he knows you’re close

“c’mon, baby, show rafe what it actually sounds like when you’re cumming all over a cock,” he mutters in your ear and that’s all it takes for you to fall apart

you swear you nearly black out from the pleasure and its only a matter of time before he’s pulling out of you and spilling his own release in thick ropes onto your stomach with a chorus of groans and “fuck”s and “so fucking good”s

after a long moment of nothing but a choir of panting breaths in the air, art turns his head to find rafe still sitting on the bench behind the two of you, his hand and stomach covered in his own cum

“practice is cancelled today,” art huffs at him before he’s turning his attention back to you, lowering your leg back to the ground and practically carrying you back to the showers to get you all cleaned up

[literaryvein-reblogs]

yet another list of "beautiful" words

to try to include in your next poem/story

Book-bosomed - coined by Sir Walter Scott; means "carrying a book at all times." If you love books, certainly you've been book-bosomed at times in your life.

Caliginous - misty, dark

Dithyramb - a usually short poem in an inspired wild irregular strain. This word comes from the Greek word dithyrambos which was the name for a wild and irregular poem honoring Dionysus, the god of wine, who was often lauded throughout the year during festivals at which poems of this style were read.

Embonpoint - plumpness of person; stoutness

Farinaceous - having a mealy texture or surface

Farouche - marked by shyness and lack of social graces

Florilegium - a volume of writings; an anthology. The word was borrowed into English from a New Latin word that comes from Latin florilegus meaning "culling flowers." Think of a florilegium as a bouquet of writings, specially selected and arranged for your enjoyment.

Goety - black magic or witchcraft in which the assistance of evil spirits is invoked

Lachrymist - one given to weeping

Lamia - a female demon; vampire

Osseous - bony

Phantasmagoria - a bizarre or fantastic combination, collection, or assemblage

Stygian - extremely dark, gloomy, or forbidding

Tenebrous - shut off from the light

Theurgy - the art or technique of compelling or persuading a god or beneficent or supernatural power to do or refrain from doing something

If any of these words make their way into your next poem/story, please tag me, or leave a link in the replies. I would love to read them!

More: Lists of Beautiful Words ⚜ Word Lists ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[platypaws]

Thank you @half-deadmagicperson for once again providing amazing voice acting, this time for Candace and Buford! <3

pnf revival challenge day 27: Celebrity!

Hosted by @howtonerdoutovereverything! ✨

Listen I know next to nothing about this man, but he's all over my tiktok fyp and at this point I'm half expecting him to just barge into the backyard at some point

[revival challenge masterpost]

[flufftober]

🍂 🍃 Hello and welcome to our fourth annual Flufftober 🍂 🍃

We’re so excited to be back and have you here once again!

As always, let’s fill the month of October with as much fluff as possible 🥰 for that to happen, you can either use our 31 regular prompts or enjoy a little challenge 😏

Below the cut, you'll find all our rules, posting info, and all the prompts in writing. If you have any more questions, please feel free to send us an ask.

And now, for the challenge...

Prompt Extras

We love to see how many of you get inspired by our prompts every year - be it by the original list or the Prompt Extras. Once again we're offering you that option and you're more than welcome to replace prompts from the original list if they don't work for you for whatever reason - no explanation needed.

As has become tradition, we offer you last year's top five fan favorites (as voted in the end survey). In addition to that, we also offer a little challenge: five angsty prompts for you to turn fluffy!

If you don't want to replace any prompt from the original list but still love the additional ones - or you simply want to challenge yourself even further - you can also mix them all together!

So in whichever way you use these Prompt Extras, have fun with them and go wild 💚

We hope you like these prompts, and now

Happy Creating 🥳

Standard Blog Rules & FAQ

Addendum: We do not allow AI creations of any kind.

(Due to previous asks, we made sure to add more points to this section - while they're not new rules, they're newer to this list, so you'll find them colored green)

No inc*st or p*dophilia - we can’t keep you from writing it or creating art for it but it won’t be reblogged. No inc*st: This rule does not apply to distant cousins and such, as you might find in the LotR fandom (or basically in all of European Monarchy). The line we draw is at direct blood relations (siblings, parents, kids) and/or legal guardianship. No p*dophilia: This rule does not rule out fandoms that feature teenagers such as Harry Potter, Heartstoppers, Hunger Games, etc. It also doesn't mean you can't write about their time together as teenagers! It's aimed at ships in which one is a minor and the other is not - but since even that has grey areas, the rule is this: if you keep it SFW, all is good and allowed, we don't care; if it turns NSFW, be mindful of the legalities of the world/society/times your characters live in.

No hate or ship bashing - we’re all different and we all love different things. As long as it doesn’t go against rule #1, it’s allowed.

Tag correctly! Trigger warnings (including cheating!), ships, ratings, (pure) smut, etc - it’s all fine as long as you tag it.

There’s absolutely no word count restriction, write as little or as much as you like.

In regards to art, anything goes: drawings, paintings, collages, mood boards, gif sets, videos, playlists… the sky’s the limit (though not really…). If you would like to create a podfic, the fic you're using does not have to be new - your creation will be new!

You can mix and mash different mediums however you like, be it within one prompt or on different days.

While we can’t force you to write fluff or create fluffy art, please try to keep in mind that this is a fluff event 😉 that, of course, doesn't mean you can't combine it with angsty/whumpy prompts - hurt/comfort is absolutely welcome!

You can start creating as soon as you see this - but please refrain from posting before the respective day.

If you post early, we will schedule your post for the correct day; if you use multiple prompts in one creation, we will post on the earliest day you used.

You can participate on as many days as you like, even if it’s just one; you can also create multiple entries for the same day.

You can replace as many original prompts as you like with our prompt extras; you can also combine them with the original prompts or create for them in addition, that's completely up to you.

It’s okay to write one story/a series for all the prompts.

You do not have to stick to one character, ship, or even one fandom - switch as often as you like to or even write for multiple ships for one day.

The ship does not have to be a romantic one! Friendship and family feels are more than welcome (but this is not a way to get around rule #1!)

Original works as well as OCs in fandoms are welcome! But please make sure to mark these clearly, either in the tags or the post itself. We're not familiar with all fandoms (though we're definitely learning a lot!), so we're not always sure what might be an OC and what might be such an unknown side character not even Google can find them...

Reader insert fics (for example "character x reader") as well as RPFs are absolutely allowed.

Other languages are also welcome - just make sure to clearly mark the day and fandom so that we can still easily reblog.

This event can be combined with other events as long as the other event allows it.

Late entries are always welcome, even if it is months or years later.

All fandoms and ships are welcome - fanon and canon - as long as they’re of age (in case you want to add smut) and not related.

Posting

Posting to tumblr

Please use the tag #flufftober2024 Please make sure there is NO SPACE between flufftober and 2024! We will NOT be checking the other tag this year!

Since tags are sometimes wonky, make sure to also mention us with @flufftober in your post

We will try to catch them all, but please don't be mad if we miss a post or if it gets reblogged a bit late

If you're absolutely certain a post has slipped past us, feel free to send an ask with the link to your post

To make reblogging easier for us, make sure to add the following tags: #flufftober2024 #day [xy] #[fandom] #[ship and/or main character(s)]

If you're using a prompt extra tag it as #alt [number]

Posting to ao3

You can add your creation to the collection Flufftober 2024 (either as flufftober2024 or as flufftober_2024)

Late entries are always welcome, on tumblr as well as the ao3 collection! Neither will close - but like always, reblogs will become less regular the more months have passed...

Prompts

1. Lost Pet Meet Cute

2. “Left. Other left!”

3. Favorite Scent

4. Market Day

5. Acorn, Chestnut, Pine Cone

6. Mistaken Identity

7. Hoodie Weather

8. Chopping & Piling Wood

9. “Don’t do that!” - “But…”

10. Bet, Game, Contest

11. Ingredients & Spells

12. “This is spooky.” - “Really?”

13. Attic, Cellar, Hidden Room

14. Fantasy AU/Mundane AU

15. “What are you wearing?” - “It’s laundry day!”

16. Yes, No, Maybe

17. Only One Bed

18. Bewitched

19. Yarn

20. Paw

21. Bonfire

22. Heirloom

23. Stormy Night

24. Comfort Food

25. Haunted House

26. “I can’t find it.”

27. Afternoon Stroll

28. Lucky Charm

29. Time Capsule

30. “Forever?”

31. Make a Wish

Prompt Extras

Last Year's Favorites

Alt 1: “I’ve got you”

Alt 2: Rainy Day

Alt 3: “Wait you love me?” - “I always have”

Alt 4: “I hate it” - “No, you don’t”

Alt 5: Porch Swing

Challenge "Make it Fluffy!"

Alt 6: Gravestone

Alt 7: Getting Revenge

Alt 8: Written but never sent

Alt 9: Suddenly Severed Communication

Alt 10: Rejected, Betrayed, Exiled, Left Behind

[jollyparaphernalia]

*Inhales* Hey there, wanna see my 'In Stars And Time' AU? I call it 'Kingswap'

Hey, What's This?

My Brainrot <3 This is Kingswap: Also known as 'Hey lets swap The King and Siffrin's roles around in this play, and go from there'. There's more to it than that, but that's the premise. While 'The Guy Who Would Be Siffrin' has their life derailed in such a way that leads to them becoming the Main Villain, 'The Man Who Would Be King' likewise has his life play out in a way that has him in the shoes of a Saviour of Vaugarde.

WARNING This AU chatter post has spoilers for pretty much all of 'In Stars And Time', including stuff from 'Two-Hats'! and 'Start Again: A Prologue'. This is the Spoilers Zone. Also any Content Warnings that apply to In Stars and Time also applies to this post, just to cover my bases.

Let's Take a Look at The Stranger Who Could Have Been Siffrin:

Meet The Stagemaster. Potentially known as 'Sulking One'/SM/Don't Call Me Shirley Siffrin'. While the King and Siffrin in baseline ISAT woke up on a beach with no memories, i've decided it would be interesting to put 'Siffrin' in Corbeaux as a young adult when The Island disappears. He wakes up one day with no memories of his past, no name, and only a vague idea that he had a community in the city...that has forgotten him completely. He takes this Very Normally over the next 10 years (alongside some other...complications) and after some travelling, returns to Vaugarde to be a Menace.

He's also got some funny 'Craft Hands' that let him do things even when he has his hands in his cloak. These hands are also capable of conjuring wires/strings that allow him to physically bind/control people as an added bonus (For the Puppeteer motif) Watch the hands, Heroes!

But Wait, I thought The King Was Big, Why Isn't Stagemaster Big?

Because this tiny form isn't their 'true form'. THIS is what the Stagemaster ACTUALLY looks like, trapped in the House of Dormont by the Orb Door.

The Stagemaster...really isn't a person anymore. It's sort of debatable he was still human even before Big Mode. He can fly like this, and can control his cloak as though it's a part of himself (But he can still remove it) If you are looking at this going 'hey, he looks like a boss out of Kirby' then I did my job right. A theatre kid isn't very fun to watch unless seen, so, even before the Party gets to Dormont, it seemed fitting for SM to have a presence in Orbquest. So...Stagemaster controls a crafted avatar from afar - like playing a character in a game. There's a metaphor about disassociation from the self here. I personally love the idea of this nasty little guy interfering with the Orb Quest and antagonizing the Heroes - he is not NEARLY as powerful as his Big Form when he's Little Guy, so there's enough back and forth for Stagemaster to both be a threat, and also give some wiggle room for the Party to bully the Villain. Build up some rapport for funsies.

Stagemaster's a real piece of work. Imagine if Siffrin took all his self loathing, and then transformed that into outward loathing. If you took the WORST impulses from Loop and Act 5 Siffrin and put them in a blender, and then added a huge chip on his shoulder against the Universe, you might get the rancid creature you see here. Wet Meow Meow has transformed into a Feral Cat With Mange. And Rabies. And an impulsive urge to monologue. He doesn't even like puns!! Horrible!

The Party eventually calls him 'Smaster' for short before arriving in Dormont.

So if 'Siffrin' is in Kings place...Who or What is travelling with our beloved Party?

Meet Clovis (Named after an old King of Franks because I am very subtle). While Siffrin was a wet meow meow stray cat, Clovis is more a nervous dog. The King's explanation behind why he called himself The King seemed very utilitarian to me in ISAT, like he wanted to embody his role completely. So...here, Clovis puts all his eggs into his identity as 'Knight'. He doesn't serve anyone, he's just really into the idea of a brave, heroic persona. He's...very awkward and nervous, and often falls back onto 'what would a more brave, knightly sort do?' to make up for the fact his entire life was carved out of his skull with a spoon.

Look at this, took a perfectly good villain and made him a blorbo. Look at him, I gave him anxiety and sword autism. Like Siffrin, the party grows to love their weird wet dog. Mirabelle bonds over swords and anxious 'do it scared' behavior, Isabeau shares a 'battle bros'/'two bros sitting in a hot tub' dynamic, Bonnie treats him like a Substitute Teach ("yeah this is fine for kids c'mon lets go' 'uh, if you say so, boniface...') and Odile merrily bullies him (Paper beats rock)

Of course we need the Don Quixote reference. (He lost the fight, for the record.) Clovis is more than just a cute face, of course. Even he has his secrets.

Something is wrong here. Something wrong with him, maybe. Maybe he isn't supposed to be here.

Much like the King, Clovis also knows he's missing important things from his life, and has taken great effort (and personal injury) to keep what bits he can close to him - even when he really shouldn't.

The Party keeps Clovis from the Headache books not because they don't think they matter, but because the party doesn't want Clovis to hurt himself. They joke that he's an amnesiac prince from a far off land, but, well, at a certain angle, that's sort of the truth, isn't it? Clovis isn't a trap master like Siffrin, (or nearly as fast) but tends to walk as the lead of the Party because he's a Very Durable guy with some armor and protective Craft, so, any traps that explode in his face are easier to shrug off, and those that aren't...well, he's got quick reflexes.

But Wait! If The King is the looping hero, and Siffrin is the Big Evil Bad Guy, who does Clovis get as a Guide?

It's good ol' Loop! Our Loop, the Loopert we love and adore. SURPRISE! I fooled you!! This AU isn't meant to be a thought experiment, it's actually an overly elaborate way to give Loop as much psychic damage as physically possible!!

What's worse than having Another You take your place? Having a Tiny Version of your Nemesis take your place, earning the love and affection of your beloved family instead of you!

(They call him 'Princeling')

Needless to say, Loop and Clovis' dynamic is what we call in the scientific community fucking atrocious. Clovis wants to put his trust into this Guiding Star, and Loop is far, FAR worse to Clovis than Loop would be to a Siffrin. Loop may not be able to guess every single thought Clovis has, but any anxiety that is a reflection of Loop/Siffrin will be mercilessly picked apart with a smile. It's hate at first sight. At least Loop can take solace in the fact that Clovis is just as clueless as Loop/Siffrin was in their loops.

Clovis meanwhile is just intimidated. A guiding star of the universe?? And they hate him already??? 'Ohh...I really messed up already, haven't I? What'd I do???' Anyways, that's all for now. I just really wanted to get my initial brain worms out of my head and into the world. Please enjoy. If I do more posts like this, i'll prolly tag it as 'isat Kingswap au'. okay byyyyyyyyyeeeee thanks for reading! And thanks to the AU channel of the ISAT Discord for being so supportive of my brainrot!

[itsrensfairygardenn]

him in his tennis clothes . i’d just sit there on the bleachers with a mental boner

[sceletaflores]

slippery when wet!

pairing: patrick zweig x fem!reader

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

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

word count: 4.3k

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

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

psst! tftw series masterlist!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re a child.”

“You still haven’t answered the question.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you,” you snarl, teeth bared in anger as you fight to stand up. Patrick’s strong hand on your shoulder keeps you down while the other starts to idly stroke his dick. He’s just as big as you remember, thick and hard only a few inches away from your face.

The tip all red and weepy when he pulls his foreskin back on each tug, a thick vein running up the side that you want to trace with your tongue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could only whine around Patrick’s dick, mouth too full to do anything but try and work your tongue over the throbbing length of him.

Your throat burns, spit flowing down your chin messily along with his pre-come still steadily leaking from the hot tip of his dick.

His big hands have an iron grip on either side of your head, his balls slap against your chin as he thrusts over and over and over. The back of your skull throbs, knocking into the stall with each pump of his hips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shoves his shorts the rest of the way down, stepping out of them and hauling you up to your feet. You’re still desperately trying to catch your breath, chest heaving as you cough and gasp.

Patrick rips your shirt over your head, flinging it over the stall along with his own. He turns you by your shoulder, pushing you against the wall as he yanks the shower handle to start the stream.

Water rains down around you, shockingly cold for a few seconds before it finally starts to warm up. Patrick makes quick work of your shorts and panties, yanking them down your legs and off your feet, tossing them in the corner of the stall with a wet thwack.

He kicks your feet further apart, one hand on your shoulder and the other lining his hard dick up with your tight hole, letting the leaking tip press into you with the smallest amount of pressure.

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

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

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

“I taught him how to use that fucking dick,” he goads into your ear, grip tightening on your throat. “Did he tell you about that? Huh?” He takes your earlobe between your teeth, biting hard enough to make you squeal into the wall.

The tile digs into your cheek, roughly scraping against your skin every time Patrick fucks back into you. 

You’re hovering over the edge, pussy throbbing with the burning need to come. Your clit pulses, swollen and sensitive but you can’t find the strength to drop your down hand between your thighs.

They’re too busy scrambling for any kind of purchase on the slippery wall of the shower, manicured nails scratching against the tile uselessly.

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

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

Your breath hitches as his other hand drops from your hip, delving between your thighs to slide the calloused pads of his fingertips over your swollen clit.

You moan, thighs clenching together as he rubs fast circles over you. “You like that, don’t you? Being used like a fucking toy.” His hand squeezes just a bit tighter. “Say it. Tell me you love being our little slut.”

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

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

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

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

You let out a sharp cry as your forehead hits the wall, thighs shaking violently as Patrick’s hips become relentless. Your whole body tensing up as you come so hard your vision blacks out.

You think you’re screaming, but it’s hard to hear anything over the white noise buzzing in your ears. Patrick’s hips don’t stop, fucking your abused pussy into overstimulation as he chases his own orgasm.

His hand drops from your throat to dig into your hip to put more power behind his thrusts. You’re immediately gasping for air, taking in greedy lungfuls of it.

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

An idea pierces through the fog of your brain, an idea so fucking filthy it has your pussy clenching weakly.

You think back to the first night Art fucked you, how he almost came all over Patrick’s pants just because they were his, just because you said his name. How worked up and hard Patrick got when you started talking about Art. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You turn on unsteady legs, hair plastered to your face with water. Patrick is right there, knees knocking against yours as he shifts the two of you closer to the spray. He looks like a marble statue, water dripping down the tip of his nose and between the hard planes of his abs.

He grins smugly down at you, “I’m staying at a hotel close to campus, unblock my number and I’ll send you my room number,” he wagers, hands sliding up and down the wet skin of your back. “I think you, Art, and I have something we need to work out.”

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

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[humming-fly]

What Rouge isn't mentioning is it's an entirely off the grid trek and they leave at 2am 👍

Joking aside I've had a fun little idea in the back of my head for the past few days, and since I saw that this week was "Team Dark Week" on tumblr it seemed too good an opportunity to pass up!

Gonna be taking these prompts Very loosely, but at least the first prompt "Fire" is easy enough to play with!

Next

[limerlove]

THE FIRST BITE!

pairing. rugby player!abby x fem!reader x rugby player!vi

the introduction. abby anderson, the co-captain of the legends. the thickest, strongest girl around and she sure does pull like it. then there’s vi, tragically pathetic unable to get a girlfriend vi, a co-captain with some of the past game in the pitch but can’t find any to save her life off the field. or will misfortune of missing keys bring the luck directly to her?

the two have done nothing but compete against each other from the day they were born. abby has been a big girl from a young age, taller than most, it didn’t take much for her to bulk up. her biceps bigger than the largest dumbells in the gym, thighs and legs strong enough to kill a man. it’s what made her a dominant force on the field. she’s a bull you’ll try like hell to doze over, but the task is nearly impossible.

then there’s violet.

she’s not as big or strong, but she’s quick. she relies on it for every match. gliding on the pitch like a leopard. it’s because of her sheer speed that the team has won so frequently. violet is also the painful thorn in abby’s side, why she isn’t the sole captain but co-captains. the best of the best coach sev says, the yin and yang of professional rugby.

abby isn’t too sure of it but she’s in it to win and for that it’s the only reason why a bond is forged between them. the hatred they have for each other becomes kinship, hours on the field bringing out the best in each other only makes them win and win, and fucking win. the surrounding districts wanting to know coach sev’s secret.

it’s friendship.

two weeks from the quarter finals, the pair decides to blow off steam and that’s when the real competition between them thrives. until recently, abby had been happily taken, violet didn’t have to compete with the beefcake. even if she’d never admit it, abby makes her feel insecure. she’s smart, kind, and seriously ripped.

the amount of girls she turns town in one night at the local bar, seraphites, makes her wanna shrivel into a ball until all she feels is the a black hole swallowing her essence whole.

but now abby is single and god, vi will cry into her pillow if another girl she thinks is pretty leaves home with abby.

“don’t feel so bad. most wouldn’t last this long with me around.”

“yeah, i feel so grateful to still be here.”

abby chuckles as she playfully punches at vi’s shoulder.

“i’ll throw you a solid tonight then, the after party after quarter finals, i won’t munch all night and you know how hard that is for me.” abby playfully pouts.

“oh, really? how pitiful. that’s actually worse than competing with you. a sympathy thrown one night stand.”

abby harmlessly puts her hands up, taking a sip from her chilled beer. immediately, the bartender starts chatting up with her and abby starts being abby. it infuriates her how little the broad blonde has to try. she slips into this girl every damn gay girl in town eats up like a midnight snack.

each time, she starts it off slow. easy. throwing a compliment your way, if that bite into the bait, they always touch her hand, her arm, or stroke the vein protruding from her bicep. abby shamelessly flirts until they’re giggling, nearly putty in her hands.

a couple hours later, the two of them are leaving but vi is walking home alone while abby is entering a cab with the breathtaking bartender who’s shift has just conveniently ended.

it’s the only night she’s thankful abby left. it’s then she realizes as she attempts to get in her shared apartment with blondie that she’s keyless and no way to get into her apartment. the office is closed and she is so severely fucked.

vi doesn’t realize that’s she just sitting there like an idiot staring until a stranger’s voice pulls her out of it.

“any luck with your mind warping powers or are you keyless?”

vi jumps at the voice, locking eyes with the most gorgeous person she’s ever seen in her life. it doesn’t help you are wearing the shortest skirt she’s ever seen, cleavage spilling out of your top and she admires the white sheer top you’re wearing.

she feels a tad breathless.

that has nothing to with you.

just her predicament.

totally.

“do you have a roommate to call?”

vi comes to it and she murmurs and soft yeah, trying to not make eye contact with the goddess she somehow has managed to embarrass herself over.

quickly, she dials abby’s number, waiting for her to pick up not, once, not twice, but three times. damn fucker is munching right now, vi swears to herself.

but she didn’t say it to herself, she said it out loud where the girl of dreams is giggling as she speed texts abby, trying to evoke a response from her.

“indisposed and munching?” you ask, you’re smirking and vi is blushing.

“yeah, her favorite extra curricular activity and she does it exceedingly fast.”

“is it yours too?”

shit.

oh my fucking shit.

are you hitting on her?

no. that’s not humanly possible for someone like you to be hitting on someone as tragic as her. vi’s convinced it’s just because abby isn’t here. that’s all. her cockblocking stunner of a best friend isn’t here to make her life sufferable but the way you’re eyeing her up like a hot piece of meat should make her feel slightly objectified if you she wasn’t doing the exact same thing.

“right girl, right munch.”

it’s the dumbest thing vi’s ever said but you laugh. offering her a spot on your couch and she’s eternally grateful for. you even have a pair of shorts and a spare t-shirt that she can sleep in. she’s eternally grateful she doesn’t have to sit outside her apartment alone for god knows how long waiting for abby to be done with her seven course meal.

violet planned to actually sleep but then you play a vinyl record on the turntable and it just so happens to be vi’s favorite and she can’t stop telling about every song on the record. she’s so animated as she talks, her powder hues vibrant as she goes into the lyrics she loves the most, what songs made her cry first listen and the songs that still make her cry to this day.

you’re looking at her the way vi’s always wanted to be look at. before either of you know it, four albums later, it’s nearly four in the morning and you’re leaning in close to her, so much so vi isn’t sure she can even breath. a vibrant pink strand gets twirled around your finger.

“know about all your favorite albums but not a name to the pretty face.”

“violet. or vi. whatever you prefer.” vi struggles to breathe even further as your lips ghost over hers.

“what do you prefer?”

“violet.”

you take a pause, licking your lips, slightly crazing violet’s lips. she looks a like a deer in headlight, terrified to make the first move but you like how shy she is, how she voices the thoughts she isn’t meant to. there’s a sweetness you want to sink your teeth into like cotton candy.

“violet it is then.”

putting her out of her own misery, your soft lips mold with hers and you’re dominant from the start. placing a delicate hand on her throat, claiming her with your tongue as you devour her whole. it’s hot and heavy. the clashing of teeth, the pulls at her pink hair, and violet can’t help but bring you closer to her.

still wearing this insufferably short skirt, vi smooths her touch over your soft thighs beneath the fabric. the two of you getting lost in each other until it’s all abruptly stops. she’s funneling her under the hem of your shirt, playing with the buttons until she absentmindedly plucks one open.

“fuck—” you curse, trying to maintain your compose but violet plucks another button and your perfect tits spill out of the material.

“yeah?” violet smirks, not being nearly as innocent as she appears.

“time to put that extra curricular to use then. let’s see how munch of a munch you can be.”

rayray’s nonsense. UM HI IDEK KNOW WHAT THE FUCK THIS IS. um. yeah. abby x vi are my favs and i'm forcing this on everyone but i also fuck with it??? idek. this is a crazy midnight kinda post, spur of the moment if you will. gonna try not to get tew in my head 'bout this. that's for future me to deal with BUT ALSO DO WE FUCK WITH IT???? only time will tell. ALRIGHT. let me work on this mega long vi fic i got going on .... byeeeeee ♡

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