loeufnangs

[loeufnangs]

he looks so cute in his lil flannels and sweaters :((

[loeufnangs]

ᨒ↟ (NSFW) happy trails! ; patrick zweig x reader

cw (18+): switch!patrick zweig, switch!reader, happy trail worship, sloppy blowjob, face-fucking, coming untouched and coming in mouth, porn w/ some plot (but mainly porn)

pat and reader use "going camping" in the relatively-remote wilderness as an excuse to have public sex..

camping in the middle of nowhere—which had really been patrick's idea more than yours—meant being away from most of your usual luxuries; sleeping on a bouncy, plush mattress, cooling down with proper AC, being able to use the stove or the oven or the microwave, being able to kick back on the sofa and watch recordings of your boyfriend's tennis matches play out on the television screen, being able to take a real shower..

it had only taken one afternoon of "roughing it" before you were ready to go home.

you were sweaty, sticky, and had admittedly not smelt your best.. deodorant can only do so much when you've been hauling camping supplies around in the forest for over an hour and a half.

and so it was pat's idea to shower in the river.

you'd fought him on it at first, arguing that the river was ‘probably going to be muddy’ and that it would be ‘bad for the environment to let regular soap be washed downstream and interact with the connected ecosystems’.

but, upon arriving at the secluded spot that he wanted you two to set up camp at, he’d presented you with solutions: a) the river was beautifully clear—smooth stones and sparkling sand covered the bottom, and the crystal-like water was cool to the touch but not uncomfortably so; and b) he'd bought a big bottle of biodegradable soap because he knew how you'd be (you were "annoyingly eco-conscious" .. his words ).

so, fine.

river shower it was.

—

the tent’s set up about twenty feet from the edge of the stream, patrick’s started to put together a place for the fire after the sun goes down, and you’re laying out two fresh sets of clothing for after your guys’ hop into the flowing water. you sigh.

“which boxers do you want tonight?” you call out as you rifle through his backpack near the tent, “black or.. gray?”

“gray,” he huffs out as he drops an armful of sticks of varying sizes in the makeshift fire-pit. he places his hands on his hips afterward like a suburban dad of three.

your fingers snag on the waistband of the pair in question and you set them aside. pushing yourself up from the dusty earth, you brush your hands off on your shorts and walk over to your boyfriend, placing your warm hands on his hips from behind. it’s easy to tell just from the way he stiffens in response that he’s sporting a cheeky smirk.. maybe even a dusting of pink over his features.

“have you even ever been camping before?”

he snickers, then scoffs in the same breath.

“sort of,” the words fall from his lips aimlessly, unsure, “.. okay, no.. i haven’t. but i did boyscouts for a summer with art before my dad pulled me from it. he said it ‘took too much time away from the courts’.. i think i got the gist of it, though.”

you kiss the back of his neck, your fingertips tracing the cartilage of his left ear. goosebumps spring up on his skin, a soft sound bubbling up from his chest. “right.. so what’s the gist of it?”

he steps away from you and then turns on his heel to look down into your eyes, almost comedically stiff—like a plastic toy-soldier with something to prove, “three hours without shelter, three days without water, three weeks without food—“

the freckles on his cheeks look more prominent than ever under the golden light of the sun. you give him a look of skepticism, and he rolls his eyes in return. he takes your hand in his and points it toward the river.

“that’s north, just so you know. like, if you ever get lost, you’re supposed to go that way.. or something.. i think.”

you sigh.

“that’s east.”

he drops your hand, a contemplative look on his face, but then he’s leaning in and kissing your head. “whatever. i tried my best, okay? it’s not like we’re gonna be leaving the campsite.”

his words come out muffled as he speaks lazily into your temple. you’re about to turn and meet his lips, but you're immediately hit with the smell of sweat. usually the smell of patrick's natural body is one that you love, one that sometimes even gets you feeling a bit hot all-over, but this kind of musk is different. you tug on the back of his shirt and lean in, ".. that river is calling your name, babe. i'm serious. no tent-sex until you smell like you again and not like a wild dog."

he pulls the collar of his shirt back from his warm skin and up to his nose, sniffing, and you chuckle when his nose wrinkles and his eyes go all wide. he's cute. your eyes naturally roam from his face to the bit of tummy now exposed from his lifted tee. a flash of hair, chocolate brown and dipping below into his shorts. there's no way to prevent your tongue from reflexively peeking out to lick over your bottom lip. he doesn't notice this—already pulling his top over his head and dropping it to the dirt. his shoes and socks are discarded next, and then he's tugging his shorts and boxers down past his knees before kicking them from his ankles. your eyes take in each and every one of his movements as he works to strip himself bare of any and all fabric, admiring the way his shoulders roll back and his biceps curl and his meaty thighs flex. your gaze hones in on his stomach again.. then the trail of hair.. then the well-groomed bush.

this time, he does notice.

he steps closer, dimples showing and pearly whites stretching a mile long. calloused fingers find your waist next, his naked sex pressed into your hip to make a point. a low hum rumbles within you as you try to quell the urge to jump on him before he's cleaned himself up, and you know that he's making it harder for you to do that on purpose. you clear your throat and place a hand on his toned chest, shaking your head and leaning in to whisper an inch from his lips.

"soap.. water.. and then you can have me.."

you watch him try not to look so disappointed as the cocky grin fades out. when he turns with a heavy sigh and begins his trek to the river, picking up the bottle of soap along the way from beside your bags, you let out the shakiest exhale. it's so difficult to control yourself when your award-winning athlete boytoy is half-hard and begging for your body with a single look. good things come to those who wait; you have to repeat to yourself five whole times so that you don't touch yourself in that very moment..

the initial plan was to bathe in the water together, but by the time you've undressed yourself and placed all of your dirty clothes in the designated plastic bag you brought, you hear the rhythmic splashing of water as he wades back to the surface. you turn, watching him shake his loose, dark waves like a drenched puppy, casting out a misting of droplets. he stands back up straight, clearly proud of himself for taking the quickest "shower" known to man, and then strides over to you. it's already blatantly clear what he's got on his mind, arousal twitching and bobbing as he walks. his hands find your unclothed waist as he sucks in a breath, and not a second later he's burying his wet face into your neck and letting out the most desperate groan you've ever heard. stuttered into four parts, warm breath on your skin, his fingers then roaming up to palm and fondle your chest as if he's one minute away from sinking his teeth into your softness.

"hate it when you make me wait," he almost whines out the words, "y'know i'm bad at it.. but i smell good now, right? i'm not—i can't wait any longer.. not when you're like this—“

a startled gasp leaves your lips when your bare ass is suddenly squeezed.

"god, patrick," your own touch wanders down the expanse of his chest, stopping for only a moment before you wrap your fist around the base of his shaft, reveling in the way his entire abdomen jolts and he curls further into your frame. his hips thrust forward, begging for more than you're allowing him, pleading with you to properly stroke his cock instead of holding him on the edge between discomfort and pleasurable friction. your thumb swipes over a bead of precome from his weeping tip and he mewls, his feet shifting wider apart on the earth and his pelvis bucking twice reflexively.

"please.. please, please, p-please.. please get on your knees for me, fuh-fuck.."

you figure it’d just be mean if you didn’t, and anyway.. you really want him in your mouth.

you drop down quickly like there are weights resting on your shoulders. as soon as you hit the ground, you’re shifting on your knees to push yourself up onto them, closing your eyes as you lean in and begin kissing his spasming lower body. you mouth over his torso and then his hipbone, letting him shudder and choke on needy moans while you work him up to his breaking point. when your eyes finally flutter open again, you’re face to face with the particular object of today’s affection: his happy trail.

it crawls perfectly from the bottom of his belly button to the start of his length, dissolving into a trimmed bushel of hair that surrounds his sex. he’s never shaved it, only kept it from getting ‘too overgrown’, and you’ve never been unhappy about that fact. there’s just always been something about caressing him there that gets him pulsing and leaking like a broken faucet. you’ve never asked him why that is, and instead have gone on assuming that he’s simply hypersensitive in that area.

you chew on the inside of your cheek, a thrum of heat climbs from your gut, and then you’re letting your soft, pink tongue loll out to lathe right over the strip of hair until your nose is buried in the mess of strands. you inhale deeply. he smells like citrus (thank you, biodegradable soap!)

patrick nearly topples over.

his hips bounce, his legs quake, his hands fly to your upper arms and his blunt nails dig in hard enough to leave a mark.

“ohhh, god,” he whimpers, breathy moans following suit as his head tips back, “that—haah, shit—don’t stop, okay? don’t f—don’t stop, i’m—“

his desperate words trigger that bolt of heat in your stomach to burst into flames. the sensation floods your chest and sends warmth to your face, melting your brain into near-mush and coaxing your tongue to slide back up the trail and down again. it’s the same thing you do when you’re teasing his dick. right on cue, his toes curl and a dribble of wetness leaves his slit and his chest revs with a slurry of wanton, panting cries that begin to increase in both volume and pitch. he rolls his hips against your moving mouth like he’s stuffed down your throat and not just getting his stomach licked. it’s a bit pathetic.. but it makes your thighs press and rub together hungrily. fuck, you want him so bad, even if especially if he can be a bit pathetic when he’s this turned-on.

you lap at his coarse hair until he’s hiccuping and his brows are pinched together, eyes closed tight and his touch now blindly holding the back of your head for leverage. thin, glistening strings of spit cling to his skin and the strands as you continue your efforts, and then you kiss over his hipbone once more.

“does that feel good?” it’s a dumb question, but you just like to hear him say it.

“yeah,” he gasps, “so good, i.. i think i’m gonna pass out..”

it’s a joke, but patrick doesn’t really laugh. you look up, curious, and then suddenly see how truly dazed he looks, almost like he really is lightheaded just from all of the desire coursing through his systems. he dribbles again, and it trickles down his entire length to his heavy balls, to the densely-packed dirt of the ground. it looks like a drop of rain. you surge forward and bite at his stomach, no longer able to find any reason to restrain yourself, and listen closely to the wonderfully shattered noise he lets out in response. as you flutter your tongue over his happy trail once more, you feel the thumping of a vein against your mouth. you pull back and pet it with your index finger, which only makes your boyfriend squirm. you kiss his trail again. one more lick, one more nip, one more suck, and then all of a sudden his spine is arching backward.

“wait, wait, wait..! f-fuck, fuck, haah—AH!—no, fuck, i’m about to—!”

you’re not sure what is exactly happening until you feel something bump your chin, followed by sticky, hot ropes of fluid gushing out over your neck and chest, spilling down your skin. you gasp, pulling back and steadying pat with your hands on his lower back as he convulses and jolts in time with the heady waves of orgasm. his eyes roll back like he’s meeting god, and he wobbles down to his very marrow as the high of his climax fades out in prickly bursts.

“patr—“ you start, a new fire roaring to life in your lower half at the realization that you just made patrick zweig come from drooling all over his tummy, wanting nothing more than to push him down now and sit on his aching parts until he really does lose some semblance of consciousness, but he takes himself into his trembling right hand and feeds his cockhead past your lips before you can even get the second half of his name out.

you moan as the taste of his release smears across your palate; sticky and salty and laced with affection. it's second nature by now to take him into your mouth the way that you do, your lids lowering as you hollow your cheeks and suck him down your throat, coughing and choking a bit at the intrusion before he reels back and groans deeply. you open your eyes just enough to see his expression crumple from overstimulation. it doesn't last for long, though.

"can i put it in?" he strokes your cheek, thumbing your upper lip to see your pretty left canine, "i can go again.. i promise.. i can go again three times over if it means you'll let me fuck your mouth.. i need it s'bad.. please, baby.."

this might be the most wrecked you've ever seen or heard him be. you wonder if there's something about being outside—about being in a place where it's possible that someone could walk by and see you two at any moment—that's making him shift into some kind of primal state. you don't dwell on the thoughts, opting for giving him a nod of your head instead and then presenting your slacked jaw to him as proof of your compliance.

patrick doesn't hesitate, not with you. he tenses as he eases himself back inside your warmth, letting you constrict around his girth, and then begins rocking his hips like its easy. the sound of your stifled gags makes him swell even further, pulsing against the roof of your mouth as the sound of wet, sloppy suction echoes out amongst the woodland ambience. he cups the underside of your chin with one hand and steadily holds the base of the back of your neck with the other, making sure you're right where he wants you to be. you sniffle and whine; he moans and keens. saliva floods in and drips from the corners of your lips, adding to the mess, while his tip mercilessly prods at the back of your throat. you feel a blurt of precome spill out, and you gulp it down without question. you'll take anything and everything that he gives you—he's been good for you up until now, you can stand to be good in return for awhile.

"i'm gonna come again," he urgently growls out mid-thrust, "take it all for me, babe.. please, take it.. don't waste it, i wanna feel you swallow it.."

your palms slide to the backs of his thighs and you tap your fingers against him there, giving him a wordless signal to use you however he pleases. as soon as he feels you tap, he's focused on nothing but finding his second tipping point, chasing a high that's seconds away and almost within reach. your eyes flutter as you struggle to pull enough oxygen into your lungs with him taking up so much space, but another tap to the back of his legs causes him to ease up while he waits for you to breathe. a few beats of greedily gasping, a third tap and final tap to his limbs, and he's back to it. the way you two have found your rhythm over time is like nothing else you've ever experienced. its natural, it's love. you both know exactly what the other needs and when because you both know how to tell one another exactly that. you feel your head quickly fogging with the sensation of your tongue being rubbed against and your airway being full of nothing but patrick, patrick, patrick..

a few more thrusts and his pace is faltering. stuttering, really. you brace yourself as he pulls you in close, your nose smushed into his dense bush, and wails.

"gonna—" he quakes, "gonna—gonna—gonna-! 'm c-coming—!"

right as you feel his length kick against your insides, you simultaneously feel your boyfriend's hand maneuver from under your chin to the front of your neck. "i'm coming inside you.." he slurs.

you do as you've been told. you let your eyes flutter shut and you let him feel you drink every drop of his spend as it flows out in overwhelming bursts. he jerks forward and seizes up when you swirl your tongue around as much of him as you can, prolonging his ecstasy and guiding him into painful hypersensitivity. he can only stand a bit more before he's stepping back and relieving you of your efforts. his cock softens, giving one last throb—letting out one last glob of his milky fluid—before it relents. it takes everything in him not to collapse. you can tell.

you're the first to speak as you raise a shaky wrist to wipe at your slick lips.

"you gonna return the favor?"

he can barely manage a chuckle.

"of course i am.. and then we'll really need to clean off.."

".. yay, river showers.."

it's sarcastic when you say it.

"yay, river showers.."

it's earnest and tender when he does.

either way, the camping trip is off to a great start.

ᨒ↟ tags: @voidsuites @fawnnpaws @artstennisracket @imperishablereverie @ghostgirl-22 @lexiiscorect @cha11engers @patricksbf @newrochellechallenger2019 @pittsick @blastzachilles @oncefaist @tacobacoyeet @nozhdyved @felinebloodhound @grimsonandclover @loverofmine99 @lvve-talks @umbreoni

[loeufnangs]

Patrick challengers is like “yeah I jerk off to gay porn and have hooked up with guys a few times, whatever, it doesn’t make me gay” and art challengers is like “I can’t let myself so much as glance at another guy’s dick in passing in a locker room for fear of what it might awaken in me”

[loeufnangs]

thinking about how badly patrick probably took the fact that him and art aren’t friends anymore :(

a couple days after tashi’s injury patrick had texted art to see how he was and to somehow get him to get tashi to text him back. no new notifications had came in from art which was unusual, art was such a prompt texter. so when patrick doesn’t get a response he basically begs for a response.

“art”

“answer”

“come on don’t be a dick”

more desperate texts were sent and still no answer. the reality of tje situation was finally sinking in for him. he realized what he did to tashi was terrible but the one person he could actually call his friend leaving him over it? he wanted his person back. since art wasn’t answering, the next best option was to call the closest person to him other than him and tashi. out of desperation he has called art’s grandma. god he felt like a child. it brought back the feeling of calling someone’s parent to see if they could hang out. except he was a grown man and it was ridiculous at this point. once he dialed her number in, it only rang a couple seconds before a sweet elderly voice came over the phone.

“hello?”

“mrs. donaldson?”

“oh patrick! i haven’t heard from you in years! how’ve you been?”

“im- im alright… hey, i don’t want to hold you up. i was just calling to see if you knew how art was doing.”

“oh i havent talked to him in awhile, but im sure he’s fine- do you need his number?”

“no- no that’s fine. just next time you see him, tell him to message me back sometime..”

“okay will do, patrick. nice hearing from you.”

“yeah, you too.”

the phone clicks as he hangs up. god he was pathetic. it finally dawned upon him on how embarrassing this situation was. he should be able to get over art. if he doesn’t want to be friends anymore, he should accept it. but unfortunately patrick doesn’t live in a perfect world and he yearns for his best friend art more than anyone in the world.

patrick finally got a break from tour and headed to his apartment for the weekend. he plopped himself on the bed he hasn’t seen in weeks. he grabbed his phone from his pocket, his eyes searching for a notification from art. nothing. so calling his grandma didn’t work.

he sighed as he sat up. he looked at the palms of his hands and sat there in silence. the sickening feeling he had been bottling up was approaching. the feeling that felt like everything was going to come out. the feeling where he can’t control his sobs anymore. the feeling where the only person he had left moved on from him.

he couldn’t think of how many times in public he had saw something and thought art would find that funny. he constantly thought it was all going to be okay because at the end of the day he could go to art. but no, there was no art. he chose to part ways and there’s nothing he can do about it.

once it all set in for him, he could feel tears prickling his eyes. he wasn’t one to cry often, so it was a strange foreign feeling. he stood up with blurry eyes and made his way to his closet with shaky hands. he fumbled through his clothes all the way to the back of his closet. grasping at a worn blue hoodie, he pulled it off the hanger lazily. instead of putting it on he took it to bed with him. holding it close to his chest. he buried his head into the hoodie, softly sobbing. he cried and cried himself to sleep. breathing in the scent of art that still lingered on the hoodie he lent patrick.

[loeufnangs]

patrick but with a tattoo like this... he's got a fistful of your hair, slowly dragging you down his body and you glimpse his tattoo before your nose meets his happy trail. all you can breath in is his musk. ughh and he chuckles at how your eyes widen a bit reading his tatt. then he guides you down to his fat cock.

[loeufnangs]

⤷ emo!bruce wayne x pop-punk!clark kent who meet at a local club during emo night. it’s one of the few times they both feel safe to take their mask’s off, to actually breathe and be themselves. Bruce in black skinny jeans, a ripped MCR t-shirt, his combat boots, his hair messy, his lip piercings shining, and his usual eye makeup smudged and dripping with every drop of sweat that falls from his hair into his eyes. Clark in his work slacks, his high tops, with a fading The Mighty Crabjoys shirt tucked into the waistband. he’s not who anyone would expect to see here, not with his glasses and bright smile. it’s what Bruce thinks as he watches him across the dark room, the warmth of his energy sticking out like a sore thumb. he thinks he recognizes that smile but…no. he pushes the thought out of his mind, turning his attention back to the music. Decode by Paramore, a classic for his early morning training sessions in the cave. his eyes shut and his head bobs on instinct, the beat familiar, the sound of Hayley Williams’ vocals making his hairs stand on end. the feel of bodies around him, all moving and enjoying the moment together without danger makes him feel somewhat at peace. he lets out a breath. but Clark can’t take his eyes off him because somehow he knows those eyes, that somber expression that tugs his lips downward. but he pushes it away just the same, content to grab a hard seltzer and join the group on the floor, seeing the joy and the companionship there. he wants to be part of that.

it’s getting warmer on in the club by the second, the sweat building and sliding down every person’s skin, leaving them shining under the flashing lights. the songs keep changing, raging and ebbing from band to band. the movement of the crowd brings them closer and closer, close enough that soon they’re bumping shoulders, Clark instantly moving back to apologize, his hands up like a dog showing submissiveness. but Bruce isn’t turning to snap at him, to tell him to watch himself. he’s turning instead to look at him, to take in those glasses, that hair, that smile and that stupid fucking shirt. it peaks his interest, especially when a Panic! At The Disco song comes on and his eyes light up, his attention shifting like a puppy. all that’s missing is the wagging tail. they move together on the floor, the music pounding through their veins. their shoulders brush and their fingers continue to accidentally twine together, Clark’s hard seltzer can almost forgotten in is other hand. he’s preoccupied feeling the dark haired knight beside him, his hard body beneath that shirt, those eyes tracing him. the background fades further when Bruce gains enough courage to slip an arm around his waist and tug Clark right against him, his dark eyes glued to him.

the music changes again, growing faster, the vocals screamy and dark—more Bruce’s speed. but he’s barely paying attention anymore as he and Clark slowly grind against each other. it’s almost gentle and deliberate, a contrast to the scene surrounding them. they’re in their own little world together, gazing so deeply at each other. it’s getting them strange looks from the surrounding attendees but they don’t care. Or..at least Clark doesn’t. The attention makes his skin crawl, like a bat who can feel the sunrise coming. He needs to find a dark spot. Clark’s lips part when he watches the dark haired man nod his head in the direction of the single stall men’s bathroom in the back corner. he swallows, glances down at the can still sitting in his hand, then back at Bruce. his face is so innocently shocked it’s driving Bruce insane. well..not innocent per say. he knows what he’s implying, he isn’t stupid. more..honest surprise at being asked to do this with someone, let alone someone he’s sure he’s seen but can’t put his finger on. some hot emo…it’s tantalizing. so he quickly downs the rest of his hard seltzer that’s making his head slowly buzz like a radio frequency, and he gives Bruce a nod.

everything speeds up after that. the way Bruce leads him off the floor, quickly opening and shutting the door, the lock clicking hard into place in the muffled silence of the tiled walls that surround them now. then they’re on each other, Bruce kissing him hard and slick, his hands gripping Clark’s soft hips under his slacks and pushing him back against the sink. Clark takes the hint, hoisting himself up to sit on the edge of the porcelain, kissing Bruce back with as much energy as he can return, his own hands sliding into his messy hair to tug and stroke through them. the sounds are sloppy and wet, mixed with Clark’s whimpery moans and Bruce’s soft grunts as he pulls Clark’s shirt out so run his hands over the skin of his torso, scratching at it on the way down. it makes Clark tug on his hair hard, their continued kissing pushing his glasses sideways on his face until he chuckles and pulls away. “let me uh…take these off.” he replies, slowly (almost hesitant for a reason Bruce can’t place) removes his glasses and tucks them into the collar of his shirt. it makes something spark in Bruce’s mind again but the lust he feels outweighs that as he pulls the brunette back into a crushing kiss, pressing himself between Clark’s parted thighs.

it’s hot and sloppy, their hands roaming until before Clark could even try to blink his slacks are undone and around his dangling ankles, his briefs following and a gasp ripping from his throat as he feels Bruce’s spit slicked calloused palm wrap around his aching cock. Bruce’s strokes are slow and measured, his lips attached to Clark’s neck as his freehand deftly undoes his own jeans, shimmying the tight fabric down to his mid thighs. not ideal, but it’s enough for him to get his boxers down to and let his own cock spring free against his stomach. he’s moving again, lifting the hem of his shirt into his teeth, revealing his stomach before he wraps his hand around both of their leaking lengths. “ngh—fuck.” Bruce groans softly, his head tipping back in pleasure as Clark’s face presses against his neck, his whines and moans coming out high between sharp kisses and bites to his neck. it’s intoxicating to experience, this almost puppy like man all over him as he brings them both pleasure in a fucking club bathroom with Pierce The Veil blaring just beyond the door.

“god you’re so—so good at this—“ Clark whines, his tip dribbling pre against Bruce’s fist as he kisses and suckles at his neck, his hands keeping his hips close, desperate to keep the pleasure right where he needs it. the sound is obscene, and he wants to keep hearing it over and over and over. it’s making his alien body overheat, his cheeks flush with color. Bruce chuckles but he knows he looks essentially the same, feeling the heat on his own cheeks, the sweat beading on his hairline, his breaths coming out in pants and groans around the fabric in his mouth. “i try my best, handsome..” that makes Clark’s heart stutter and his cock kick in his dark haired lover’s palm. god he’s so fucking close. his head tips back against the mirror, his whines getting a little louder. but Bruce doesn’t mind, not like anyone would head him over I’m Low On Gas And You Need A Jacket. so he lets him whine, speeding up his fist over both of them as the leak together. he latches his lips onto the brunette’s collarbone, suckling, determined to leave his mark, to be remembered. something that can say ‘Bruce was here’. he feels Clark’s thighs kick and he moans out “coming—!” before he’s spilling right onto Bruce’s fist, his hands gripping the sink edge tight. the sight has Bruce following seconds after, his nose pressing right against Clark’s neck as he moans low and desperate, their loads mixing together between his fingers.

the silence returns again, the pounding of the music their anthem as they pull their pants back up. Clark slides off the sink, Bruce taking his place so he can wash his fist of their excitement. they make themselves look presentable again, Clark tugging Bruce in for one last kiss before they part ways again, disappearing into the crowd like ghosts. and maybe they blame it on their imagination when Batman notices suspicious dark marks against Superman’s throat on their next mission, Superman seeing a few fading marks on the dark knight’s own.

[loeufnangs]

batman is the bottom……

[loeufnangs]

⤷ ftm!artrick + cut me open by um, jennifer? 1.5k words.

testosterone made them magnetic.

it was a something they could almost sniff out on each other like hounds. they smelled it their first day together at MRTA, a quiet indicator they suddenly weren’t so alone. they finally had a brother in arms at their side, someone they could fully trust, body and soul, instead of hiding parts away like they normally did.

it was a red string around their pinkies, binding and warm.

but it was also a raging hormone that made their friendship something more…intimate than perhaps it should be. long nights at the academy, at their respective homes, hell, at Stanford, spent at the foot of each other’s beds. smoking, talking, knees touching, a heavy, hazy head pressed against someone’s shoulder. it made the room tense and hot with things neither would confess out loud. things that somehow didn’t make any sense to the other.

why would he want me? what does he see in me? why does he care about me?

if only they knew how equal and common these thoughts were between one another.

almost as common as their silent competition. to be the best tennis player, the best student (though for Patrick that wasn’t really a competition he was interested in), and probably the most toxic, the best man. it was a game they just couldn’t let go of, the heat of it driving them somehow closer to one another, making that craving heat stronger.

making them both crazy for each other.

it culminates in their touches, their almost animalistic moments where they just can’t hold back anymore. and even if it’s animalistic, it’s tender because they are the first person to see their body, to understand it and pull that raw pleasure from it.

the first time it happens if after their first doubles win at MRTA. a late night celebration at their team captain’s dorm, drinking and smoking, surrounded by raging hormones and that masculine camaraderie rushing to mix with their adrenaline. their both sweaty and stumbling when they make it back to their room, giggling at how stupidly light and loose they feel.

“i feel like i’m made of cotton candy..” mumbles Patrick as he falls face first against his bed, the biggest smile on his face. Art shakily shuts the door behind them. he’s like a baby giraffe as he wobbles his buzzing body over to his friend, flopping down on top of him. Patrick grunts before dissolving into giggles, rolling over under Art’s lithe body to gaze at him all stretched out over his torso.

he looks pretty like this, he thinks. the soft glow of the street lamp outside their building makes his curls look like a halo. his still changing face: that sharp chin getting sharper, the small beginnings of some acne spots on his forehead and cheeks, those long, soft lashes draped over his under-eye skin. he’s gorgeous, the brunette sighs to himself, a hand drifting to Art’s back.

but when he sees the way Art’s eyes all but fly open and meet his, he assumes he said that last hit out loud.

shit.

the silence that has blanketed them suddenly turns itchy and humid as they both sit there, looking back and forth at each other. the lamp light feels too revealing, the brunette would rather be in total darkness to escape from those piercing blue eyes gazing right into him. it’s something about how innocent and shocked Art looks. his plush lips parted and his cheeks flush with alcohol and..something he didn’t dare to name.

but it seems he doesn’t have to when to his surprise, Art moves sideways and crashes his lips against his tightly. it’s not really a kiss so much a mash of flesh against flesh. something silencing. but Patrick returns it, sighing as he brings a hand to rest solidly on the back of Art’s neck, holding him there.

Art’s high moans fill the space of their room along with Patrick’s full groans, the sound of shuffling against sheets as they move together to grind and press their aching bodies against each other. it’s messy, uncoordinated, and they both stink of sweat and booze and boys. but they don’t care. it’s evident in the way Art’s hands slide up and down over Patrick’s ribs, the way Patrick’s tongue tangles tightly with Art’s.

they don’t talk about it after that. they don’t discuss how they felt rubbing their cocks together, their slick and sweat mixing between their thighs, their mouths open and cheeks flush. they chalk it up to a drunken mistake, a stupid idea driven by too much to drink.

but that idea doesn’t hold up as tight when it happens again.

it’s less ideal, the locker room showers. but it’s a day or two after they’d both done their gel and tshot respectively, and they can feel their bodies aching with need. and sweating for hours together on the court, the sounds of their teammates grunting and groaning through a workout does nothing to help the dampening spots on their briefs.

most of the other boys are too preoccupied to notice as Art slips into Patrick’s stall, closing the curtain carefully behind him, his eyes roaming over the brunette’s steadily growing body. he’s got hair in places Art doesn’t, his muscles shaping with the added growth, his chin getting more sculpted by the day.

it makes Art hungry as Patrick presses him against the cool tiled wall off the shower. the blonde whines his hips instantly moving to seek friction against his dense bush. the contact is electric and it’s a struggle to hold their noises.

Patrick’s hand slips down between their bodies, his fingers brushing over Art’s throbbing cock, feeling the slickness that’s building between his folds. he loves the way it makes his legs tremble around him, the way his eyes flutter shut and those soft lashes lay out over his cheeks. he can tell he’s doing his best to hold his noises in, his plush lip settled between his teeth as his hips roll into every motion of the brunette’s fingers.

Art’s hand follows suit, shakily sliding through the coarse hair just under his navel to find that chubby, growing bud that’s heated and slick and begging to be touched. so he does, mimicking Patrick’s movements and relishing in hearing the soft moans it pulls from him. it makes his chest swell with pride that he can make him feel like this, feel so good.

they silence their moans against each other’s lips, both their hips bucking into the heat of their fingers and palms. their slick and hot, their cocks throbbing together until Art is writhing and whining high against Patrick’s lips, and Patrick’s fingers are furiously rubbing at him to prolong his orgasm. but it’s shaky because he’s following right behind him, the hand on the back of Art’s neck digging into him, punishing and tight as he groans.

they pull apart, the water sliding down their bodies, the sticky steam clinging to their skin as they just look at each other for a minute. but the minute barely lasts, the sound of their teammates laughing breaks the trance.

it continues like this for weeks.

two souls attempting to fuse into one. two body’s desperate for understanding, for affection, as they cut deep into one another and crawl inside, the wound closing them in snug and safe.

it made things both easier and harder to take their connection this far. the compulsory need to fit in, to be like other boys, would shove them towards girls for years and years to come. even while they secretly continued to kiss and taste and love behind closed doors (and even not so closed doors). it made their affections bitter, that undertone of jealousy a constant.

the pictures on their socials, the stories from friends of friends. the thought of the other with someone who wasn’t them, the proof of it, it made their kisses harsher, their fingers dig in deeper, their thrusts push further and further. it made their moans and cries higher and more desperate.

desperate to keep what was theirs. the body and heart that belonged to them.

Art feels it anytime Patrick bites around his nipple, or grabs his hip so hard he’s sure it’ll bruise, or keeps suckling at his cock even after he’s come, making his legs shake with overstimulation.

Patrick feels it when Art nuzzles his face into his bush of hair like he lives there, or leaves purple marks all over the flesh of his muscles thighs, or wraps his hand around his throat whenever his close like he knows he likes.

they feel it together whenever they show each other their bodies—the scars across their chests, a bandaid on Patrick’s stomach, acne on Art’s shoulders where he applies his gel. all of it, a shared reminder of their intimate connection beyond just sex, just friendship.

it’s what drags them to each other in the hotel room, the sauna, the court.

the craving to fit in, to have themselves be perceived not as “trans” men but just as men, and at the same time keep the one understanding constant they could. the one thing they didn’t need to hide themselves from.

it’s what made the game, made them challengers.

who could love the other deepest? who could melt in the best? who could become the most vicious? who would touch the gentlest?

[loeufnangs]

i need patrick zweig bush so bad #starving

18+ mdni

i'm not even into hairy men in general but there's just something about him that's soooo. i'm moaning

he doesn't bother trimming it at all. never has, never will. it's not even laziness. he'll tell you straight-faced that it's because he's a man, and it's natural, and women like it. he makes fun of art for fussing with his razor, too. and maybe you roll your eyes but when your face is buried in it, nose pressed right to the root while you're mouthing at the base of his cock, you can't find a single thing to complain about. it's coarse and curled, the kind of texture that scratches your cheeks red when you nuzzle against it. there's this dizzying smell of salt and sweat, musk and warmth, just a thick heady scent that fills your every breath.

he grins smugly down at you when you lick lower, deliberately dragging your tongue through the thicket. split glosses the wiry hair, wet trails shining as your mouth works up and down, up and down, taking him deeper until you're nestled right back in the mess at his base. and he just fucking loses it at the sight of drool dripping and catching in the curls, clinging and slick.

it's not cock worship if you don't kiss every last bit of him, right? the shaft, the head, the base, those heavy balls, the wiry dark hair curling around it all. you nuzzle and lick and kiss every inch. even better when he gets to cum all over your face afterwards so it's your hair that's a mess next.

patrick zweig facial lover !!

[loeufnangs]

i am now in LOVE with punk!patrick x jock!art.. and i will definitely need more of them whenever u have time 😭😭 ur such a great writer

thank you!!! so sorry this took forever. i hope you enjoy!

-

patrick, found himself somewhere he’d never thought he’d be. a football game. surrounded by loud cheering parents and other overly enthusiastic locals. he, like everyone else, had his eyes trained on a player with the number 13 and ‘dondalson’ written on the back as he tackled and caught passes with ease. the game ended quick considering patrick showed up neared the end. their team won coming as no surprise to anyone in the bleachers.

cheerleaders and teammates jumped, and cheered in a huddle around art hoisting him up in the air. art caught sight of patrick almost immediately. he was the only one there not dressed in their school’s colors, and the only one who had their eyes solely on him.

-

“good game.”

a voice echoed through the empty locker room. art picked his head up off his red locker, and turned to see patrick standing in the far corner.

“didn’t think this was your scene.” art countered, slipping his shirt over his damp skin. “it’s not. just wanted to see you.” art tried to pretend that didn’t have any effect on his whatsoever, and that gulp he took was beecause his throat was dry not because his was holding himself back.

after what happened at patrick’s house art kept their interactions to a minimum, whenever he came to pick up his weekly supply he always had a friend with him so they didn’t have to be alone. but despite the distance he created that didn’t stop patrick from showing up in his dreams.

“i also wanted to invite you to this.” patrick crowded his space, and pressed a flyer into art’s chest. art took the paper and turned it over. it was advertising a band, patrick’s band, that would playing at some party this saturday. “in case you want another break from pretending.” before art could respond the main door of the locker room banged open.

“yo! dondalson, you coming? everyone’s waiting.”

art pushed away from patrick, picking up his bag, and shoving the flyer into one of the open pockets. “yeah, coming.”

“what were you doing with that loser?” art’s friend questioned when he approached him. “nothing, he just needed something for a project.” his friend eyed him and then patrick who lifted up his ringed hands to give him a wave.

“mmm, let’s go”

the locker room became empty with only patrick inside.

-

on saturday, art stood in front of his mirror having already changed his shirt five times. he had no idea what the fuck people wore to these kind of parties, and everything he had already put on felt stuffy. he ended up with the blue polo he had dismissed earlier.

the drive wasn’t too long, and he showed up just in time to see patrick and his band take the stage. he looked and felt just as out of place as patrick had when he attended the football game. everyone around him had dark hair and even darker makeup. metal was sticking out of every inch of their faces, while art stood in the middle of them all. blonde hair, blue polo shirt, and his light wash jeans.

nothing could prepare art for the loud music that came booming through the speakers. he got knocked around by people bumping into him while they danced. he didn’t know where to keep his eyes, from the guys on the guitars, to the lead singer singing into the mic, to patrick. his lightly tattooed arms flexing with every hit he placed on the drums.

the band played four songs before calling it quits, letting another band to the stage. patrick rushed off the stage already knowing where to go. he’d seen art the minute to took to the stage, it was hard not to miss him.

“art! hey art!” patrick called out to the lost looking blonde. they pushed their way through crowd until they met up near the edge.

“you actually came?”

“had nothing better to do.”

patrick smirked, then reached to grab art’s hand, pulling him off to a more secluded place. the newly forming callous from patrick’s hand was rough against art’s already healed ones.

the two of them stood side by side when they got to the quiet, empty hallway. patrick offered art a cigarette which he turned down.

“did you like the show?” was the first question out patrick’s mouth. “yeah, yeah, it was really good. i didn’t know you could sing.” art referenced to the moment in one of their songs where the lead singer went quiet and patrick took over from behind the drums. “my one of many talents.” patrick smirked.

“i’m surprised you came, actually, i thought you would still be avoiding me.” art snapped his head towards patrick. “i am not avoiding you.” patrick gave him a look telling him he wasn’t convinced by his words. “it’s fine, dondalson, really. but if i were you i’d stop eye fucking me from across rooms if you want nothing to do with me.” patrick teased.

art scoffed. “what!? i have not been “eye fucking” from across anywhere. you’re delusional.” he scoffed again, shaking his head. “mmm, that why you keep look at my lips?” patrick said, bringing his cigarette to his mouth. art couldn’t help but do exactly what patrick had said he was doin. eyes honing in on the way his lips wrapped around the orange part of the stick. remembering how those lips felt around his di-

“you know you can kiss me if you want. we’re the only ones here.” the offer interrupted art’s thoughts. patrick’s green eyes lazily bore into art’s blue ones. it was clear he wasn’t gonna make the first move again, so art took a breath, shut his eyes, and lets his hand reach around the back of patrick’s neck pulling him into a kiss.

the kiss was just as electrifying sober as it was high. cold metal from patrick’s snake bite piercings pressed against art’s plain lips. the taste of nicotine was strong and art found himself wanting more. he molded his tongue molding with patrick’s, the two of them messily swapping spit. art traveled from patrick’s lips to his neck. wet, open-mouthed kisses were left there, and patrick’s breathing picked up.

“m’gonna do something.” art muttered, slowly sinking to his knees until they hit the ground. he was face to face with patrick clothed half hard bulge. with shaky hands, art unzips and unbuttons patrick’s jeans. patrick watched art from above, as the blonde played with the waist line of his underwear before pulling them down.

when patrick’s cock, hard and slightly leaking, popped out art was beginning to realize he might have overestimated himself, but he still spit on his hands and placed them around patrick’s dick. the soft sigh that came from patrick encouraged art to start slowly moving his hands up and down the shaft.

“good, that’s good.” patrick moaned, slipping his cigarette free hand into art’s hair. patrick kept steady eye contact with art who was beginning to place small kitten licks on his tip, his hands still doing most of the work. “i think you can take more than that.” art’s mouth widen and wrapped around patrick’s cock. his head bobbing slowly. the cock in his mouth was heavy on his tongue, and his jaw was already starting to hurt from the stretch.

low groans sounded from above art, and the hand in his hair clenched and unclenched ever so often.

“god, your mouth is a dream.” patrick had to stop himself from thrusting forward. it was obvious from art’s movements he’s never done this before, and that knowledge made patrick harder. being art’s first. “you look so good down there, dondalson. -fuck- with my dick in your mouth.” art moaned at the praise, sending vibrations through patrick cock casuing his hips to jerk forward. art gagging around it as a reflex before pulling off with a cough.

“shit, sorry.”

art shock his head, sucking in a big breath of air. “s’fine, i’m fine. liked it.” he slurred, looking up at patrick with big watery eyes. patrick also came right then. “you liked it? you like when i fuck your mouth?” he asked, tighter his grip on art’s hair. “want me to do it again, hmm?” patrick’s words made art’s dick twitch in his pants.

“yeah, yes. do it, use me.”

“fuck.”

patrick dropped the dying cigarette that was sitting in between his fingers on the floor, so he could wrap is around his cock. he teased the tip of his dick against art's swollen lips. the precum leaving behind a lipgloss like shine before he pushed into his waiting mouth. a groan filtered out of patrick as he began fucking art's face. he couldn't get too far without art gagging, but that didn't stop him from speeding up his movements, going deeper each time anyway.

art dug his fingernails into patrick’s jean clad thighs, his eyes watering and throat burning with every thrust.

“so fucking good.” patrick let out a high pitched strained moan when art started sucking harshly. “what would your friends say if they saw you on your knees for a loser like me.” he yanked art awake from his cock, a thin spit line connecting his tip to art’s lips followed. he looked pornographic. cheeks flushed red, teary blue eyes, chest heaving.

patrick muttered curses under his breath, tugging art’s mouth open wider with his thumb to feed his dick back in.

the thrust were rougher now. patrick’s pelvis bumping art’s face. all art could do was whine and moan and hump the air desperate for the slight friction he got from his zipper pressing into his painfully hard cock.

“shit, gonna cum in your mouth. you gonna take?” art look up at him and nodded the best he could with a muffled “mhm”

patrick kept a fast steady pace chasing after an orgasm that was quickly approaching. with low moans and curses and a painful hard yank on art’s locks patrick stilled in art’s throat. warm, salty liquid filling his mouth. art pulled off with cum filled cheeks. to spit or swallow, he asked himself, and with patrick’s heavy gaze on him he swallowed.

“you didn’t have to swallow, you know.” patrick said, tucking himself back into his jeans. “s’fine” art now face to face patrick. “you’re not gonna ignore me after this, are you?” patrick asked. “you know, suck my dick then forget i exist.” he joked, but it wasn’t a joke. “yeah, sorry about that.” patrick’s shrugged. “i’m not gonna do that again, ok.” art reassured, pressing himself closer to patrick. “i’d actually want to hang out more.” patrick’s smirked at the double meaning for hang out, sliding his hand inbetween the two of them to rest on art’s bulge.

“i’d like to hang out more too.”

-

[loeufnangs]

artrick angst + the only thing by sufjan stevens ! 4:42

do i care if i survive this, bury the dead where they're found / in a veil of great surprises i wonder did you love me at all?

the loss of Patrick was like the loss of a childhood dog. something warm and soft and slobbery that left an unmistakable, cold absence in it's place. Art buried that sorrow deep in his chest, down in the depths where no sunlight could reach it. he didn't want it to grow, he didn't want to mourn, he just wanted it to go away. but there are nights he dwells on it, on them, and really thinks back on what they were to each other. often time it leaves him sniveling and sobbing into his pillow, crying so hard he has to rush to the bathroom to save his bedding from being dirtied.

he just wanted this tearing feeling to go away.

do i care if i despise this, nothing else matters, i know / in a veil of great disguises, how do i live with your ghost?

there were other days where the anger would take over in place of the sorrow. anger was never Art's strong suit. he wasn't an angry person, never had been never would be. but when he thought about Patrick, Tashi, Patrick and Tashi, Patrick and him, Patrick and him and Tashi-he just couldn't help it. the brunette was such an ass, such a cocksure ass. he had to have everything, and it left Art with nothing. not even him. and it made him slam his racket against the court, it made him it the ball too hard, it made him sick. he's gotten everything and then taken it all with him.

and yet, a day couldn't go by where those eyes, that smile, that face wasn't in his mind..

should i tear my eyes out now? / everything i see returns to you somehow

every tennis court, every pair of Nike's, every stupid pack of blue Camels, every piece of finger tape Art laid eyes on reminded him of Patrick. it was painful. he couldn't even see a churro anymore without remembering that last meal in the cafeteria. before everything went to shit.

should i tear my heart out now? / everything i feel returns to you somehow

all the anger, the sorrow, the pain, the wanting, the triumph—everything was Patrick. Art's first French Open win, his engagement to Tashi, his Aussie Open, the birth of Lily, all of it made him want to call. to hear that teasing tone, to hear him say he was proud, he was happy, that he deserved it. because now he wasn't sure he did if he was getting it all without the one person he'd been sure would've been there for all of it.

and it was his fault.

should i tear my eyes out now, before i see too much? / should i tear my arms out now, i wanna feel your touch

[loeufnangs]

eater!ranson ! cw: 2.7k words, not proof read, 18+ MDNI, descriptions of bodily gore, a hint of blood k!nk, cannibalism, homophobia, use of f slur (derogatory), violence, bodily harm, messy make out, snowballing but with blood bc i can.

it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. it was an accident, he hadn’t meant for it to happen. he didn’t mean to do it. he would never.

but the evidence was everywhere now—all over his lips, his cheeks, his hands, his hair, his clothes. splattered on the walls and the concrete below his feet. spilled over his shoes, pooling into the crevices and cracks. it was undeniable that it had happened, weather he’d meant it or not.

Randy was never as violent as other eaters. he never killed for fun, he only killed out of necessity, out of the hunger that would pool in his belly. it wasn’t enjoyable. it was survival. and he was usually more in control of himself. there were only a few times he’d ever lost that control. the first was when he’d discovered he was an eater at 7. he’d been at a sleepover for one of his childhood friend’s birthday party’s. he’d wandered downstairs late at night, restless and unsure how to quell what he was feeling. that’s where he found his friend’s older brother in the kitchen, Trevor. he was licking the bowl of cake mix clean, and offered him some, the substance sticking to his offered up finger.

he wasn’t exactly sure how it happened, or even why he did it. he hadn’t been hungry. and yet, somehow, the moment his lips and tongue held Trevor’s finger in his mouth, heavy and fleshy, he was biting in deep. his whole body felt zoned out, Trevor’s screams fading away, all his focus being pulled to the warm blood filling his mouth, the way his skin peeled off into his teeth like skin from a chicken wing. it was salty and warm, and the crunch of the bones was perfect. he didn’t stop. he knew he should’ve, but he didn’t. he couldn’t.

his mom moved him quickly after that, states away. he wasn’t allowed out beyond school and home. he learned to stay away from other people, to keep to himself. no clubs, no after school activities, no friends.

but the loneliness that consumed him made that hard.

that’s what spurred the second time. he’d made friends with the boy his mom paid to mow their yard and trim their trees. he lived a few houses down. Jack. he was taller than Randy, a little bigger, with bright eyes and a snaggletooth smile that made Randy’s stomach clench with something he’d dare not name. at first, it was just light conversation whenever Randy would bring him something to drink or eat. soft pleasantries that grew into genuine conversations.

he’d ask about Randy’s interests, his life, his day. Randy would return it in kind, listening intently with a small smile across his lips. it felt nice to talk to someone his own age, to have someone care about him and want to be around him. someone who didn’t immediately see him as a threat. he’d invite Jack in when his mother wasn’t home, showing him his collectibles, his music, his posters. he loved watching Jack’s face light up, his smile growing as his eyes took in what Randy offered.

but nothing good could ever stay good.

and Randy was blinded by his growing affections towards Jack. so much so that when he and Jack were alone in his room one day, and Jack kissed him, he didn’t pull away. he pressed closer, licking into his mouth clumsily, letting his hands wander and roam. he couldn’t contain himself as he kissed down his neck, hearing Jack’s soft breaths above him. everything began to fade out again, his kisses turning more desperate and wanting. before he knew it, blood was pooling in his mouth and around his teeth. his eyes slipped open, his senses returning. but he heard nothing. Jack wasn’t making any sound…he wasn’t breathing. he jumped back, Jack’s now lifeless body slumping against the bed.

he’d torn into his throat, the muscle and skin shredded and gashed, blood leaking onto his bedding. it was a grisly sight, like something an animal might do. Jack’s eyes were open and lifeless, his body unmoving. Randy could barely contain the gasp that toar from his throat, followed by ragged sobs, tears falling fat and hot across his face as he stared at the corpse before him.

he’d killed him.

after that and another move, Randy stayed away from people all together. and when he moved out, that was his daily constant. work, home—home, work. he didn’t make space for anyone to come into his life, or for himself to find anyone else. he could live with the solitude if it meant he wouldn’t kill again.

that was until Benson.

Benson was an enigma to him, a stoic form radiating constant ‘don’t fuck with me energy’. it was as distancing as it was intriguing. even more so when he felt that twinge, that sense that he too was an eater. he’d yet to meet another in all his years on earth, his constant distance from people keeping him distanced from other eaters.

it made sense Benson was one in all honesty. he was brooding, dark, angry. everything he always thought other eater’s would be. and he was sure, or at least somewhat sure, Benson was aware of his…perversion…as well. but they never discussed it. they never spoke about it, not to say that they ever spoke at all. but something changed a little in Benson when they sensed each other. he would bring Randy more napkins from the back for restock without being asked, he’d stay late to help him lock up, he’d always keep a basket of fries off to the side for him after shifts. but still, they never spoke. not that Randy would ever want to. (he did want to. a lot)

he wasn’t sure how it happened in all honesty. Chris was being an asshole and Randy was taking it. per usual. but there was something different in the air today. something he couldn’t put his finger on—maybe he didn’t want to. it felt dark, like something bad was brewing and if Randy dared to do anything out of the ordinary, he’d stir the pot too much and it would all spill out. a tidal wave of bad.

in his defense, it really couldn’t be helped. not with the way Chris honestly wouldn’t let up, not even after closing where he had waited outside for Randy. he followed the blonde to his car, calling him names he whole way, kicking dirt up behind his shoes. Randy was just determined to get in his car and go home, to go back to his solitude. but Chris was…Chris. it didn’t matter what Randy wanted. not when that word spilled from Chris’s lips so venomously, dripping like poisoned drool from his lips as he hurled a crumpled up wrapper at the back of his head.

“faggot!”

that was all it took. he couldn’t help it anymore. he was tired of being walked all over, of being alone, of feeling ashamed of himself and his nature. it wasn’t his fault. it had never been. Randy whirled on Chris, easily striding up to him, grabbing his shirt and dragging him forward so the skin of his neck met his teeth. Chris screamed and hit at Randy’s scrawny body, desperate and shocked. good. Randy thought. he should be afraid. everyone should be afraid of him.

he ate, biting through his skin, his muscle, his tendons, swallowing it down until his teeth scraped the bone with a sickening sound. it made his teeth ache and he pulled away, looking down at Chris. lifeless, bleeding out, finally quiet. Randy panted softly, feeling the blood and globs of him drip down his chin, down his neck, landing wetly on the pavement. it all comes crashing down on him, the guilt, the burning of tears behind his eyes. he can’t help it. even if he eats, he still has the soul of a human. it hurts him to hurt others.

so he runs to the only other person who can understand—Benson. he leaves Chris there, dead and dying further, gets into his car and drives fast and frantic to Benson’s house. he doesn’t even remember why he knows where he lives but he does. he parks and moves quickly to the front door, knocking on the wood with a shaky hand. he could hear the heavy footfalls of the brunette on the other side, his muttering about “who the fuck is here this late?” past the wood. his stomach clenched as the door clicked open and he was drenched in the light of his home, the evidence of what he’d done now colored in bright red instead of a muted black.

his eyes met Benson’s, wide and wild, pleading. he opened his mouth to speak but he was stopped when Benson grabbed the front of his shirt. he already knew. he tugged the blonde quickly and quietly through his home to his room, past his sleeping mother, shutting and locking the door before guiding Randy to sit on the bed. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t talk or ask him about it. he doesn’t need to. he could smell it on him the moment he opened the door, it was obvious.

as obvious as the younger boy’s anxiety. the way his hands and limbs shook, the way his eyes darted around the room, his jaw tight and set. still, he didn’t say anything. he grabbed a few old clothes from his dresser, tossing them to the blonde. “get into those. i’ll burn your old ones.” he murmured, turning his back to give Randy some privacy.

he changed shakily, the clothes hanging off his smaller frame. but at least they weren’t covered in blood and flesh and they smelled….fine. they were enough and he was grateful, even more so as he watched Benson stuff his clothes into a plastic bag and tie it up, stashing it under his bed before grabbing his sleeve and dragging him back out to his car. “c’mon. i’ll help you deal him..i assume you didn’t, right?” he mutters when they leave the safety of his home, to which Randy shakes his head, his hands tight around his biceps. “no i..he’s still there.”

they ride in silence back to the parking lot of BurgersBurgersBurgers. Benson took over driving, know Randy would be a wreck in his state. he honestly wasn’t sure how he’d made it to his house at all.

the air is heavy with the knowledge of what they are about to do when they got there.

it feels like a blur to Randy, his mind and body in the same limbo it always is whenever he eats. that buzzing in his bone like flies rotting him from the inside out. it makes his stomach churn violently, his nails digging harder and harder into his palms. like if he digs deep enough the flies will leave through the wounds and he’ll find peace and decay quietly.

but that thought is jerked from him when Benson pulls the car into a parking space in front of the restaurant, Chris’s lifeless body still lying there. the red of his blood is like neon against the dark pavement, the sight making Randy almost whimper with how sick and how hungry he feels. he doesn’t speak to it though, just follows Benson out of the car and up to the body, watching the brunette inspect the damage he’d inflicted. he looks almost…impressed.

that’s new for Randy, to have someone see the result of his nature and not be horrified, not want to cover it up, not hide it. Benson looks proud, impressed, almost shocked at the sight of the missing piece of Chris’s neck as he lies there.

“damn.” Benson mutters, kneeling down beside the body, reaching out to poke the muscle on Chris’s arm. “he really deserved it..” and it’s the first time in Randy’s life that he’s felt inclined to agree that violence was deserved here. yes..he did deserve it. but he doesn’t say that out loud, instead kneeling down on the other side of the body, his hands in his lap. “so..are we going to bury him or b..burn him or what..?” he asks the bigger man, his eyes still wide as a doe’s.

Benson shrugs. “we could just bury him in the dumpster. they take the trash tomorrow, it’d be quick and easy. not like a garbage man is gonna look through that shit back there or anything.” he looks up at Randy, and for a moment, he can see that same hunger he feels around the body reflected in those tired, no bullshit eyes. it makes Randy’s arms erupt in goosebumps.

“yeah. okay.”

so that’s exactly what they do, lifting the body up off the pavement and carrying it behind the restaurant to the dumpster, where it’s unceremoniously dropped over the edge with a softened thump thanks to the rotting bags already in it. Benson hauls himself up to kick the bags around and over the dead body, while Randy stays below and watches. well..not watches.

the sound of Chris’s body hitting the bags, the finality of what he’d done, it’s all hitting him again, and he feels that sick guilt well up in his body. he hates this feeling, he hates himself and the things he does that he doesn’t mean to do. well…he meant this one. but not Trevor, not Jack, not them. he wanted to be good but…was he just no good? was this all he was?

he’s interrupted by the feeling of Benson’s hands on his face, bringing him back to reality, dragging him from the hell of his mind. his eyes are intense, his brows downturned to match the frown on his face. he keeps him steady as he speaks. “stop doing that.” he says sternly, but at a whisper level. “stop thinking like that. it’s your nature, Randy. it doesn’t make you bad. it doesn’t make you a monster. you deal with it. you are more than being an eater. understand?”

when Randy doesn’t answer, Benson’s eyes trace down him to where his palms are bleeding from his nails dug into the flesh. he reaches for one, bringing it to his face. he unfurls Randy’s fingers, coaxing them open with an unusual ease, before examine the red crescents. he takes a moment, a singular second of his eyes roaming the broken skin, before he brings his eyes back to Randy’s and presses his mouth down against the wounds.

he doesn’t stop when Randy gasps, he sucks and licks and kisses them, the blood flowing easily onto his tongue. he lets out a soft sound when he tastes it, tangy and rich. a sound Randy has never heard him make but one that makes his knees weak. he doesn’t try to pull away, he lets Benson take from him—and lets him give it back.

it’s a swift move from the brunette as he tangles his fingers into the hairs on the back of Randy’s head and hauls him into a heated kiss, pushing the pooled blood into his mouth, onto his tongue, making him taste himself in an entirely new light. he whines soft and high, his hands grasping at Benson’s arms for some stability as he attempts to follow his motions, clumsy but well intentioned and warm. wanting. he can feel spit dripping down his cheek, Benson’s large hands on his face and his neck, and the salty tang of his own blood on his tongue, making the too big shorts a bit tighter around his cock. it’s an new feeling but he doesn’t want it to stop.

but he doesn’t get a choice when Benson breaks their contact, pulling away panting softly, eyes still fierce and set. he eyes him up and down, the corners of his red stained lips pulling up into a smile. “not thinking now, are ya..?” he murmurs slyly, watching Randy try to reboot his brain. the blonde shakes his blissfully empty head. no, he isn’t thinking. he doesn’t have enough blood in his brain right now to think.

“good. anytime you start to get hard on yourself like that, think you’re some monster or something, think about that instead..” Benson says, pressing his forehead against Randy’s. “think about how you tasted, your blood filling your mouth..you’re as human as anybody. you aren’t bad, Randy.”

[loeufnangs]

cowboy!artrick + crush by ethel cain ! cw: 1.4k words, 18+ MDNI, cowboy!au, alluded homophobic violence, hurt + comfort, clothed sex, dry humping, grinding, coming in jeans

i owe you a black eye and two kisses / tell me when you wanna come and get 'em

Patrick who really wasn't fond of Art at the start. this blue eyed, blonde boy who showed up at his door on move-in day, barely looking like he'd ridden a horse a day in his life. his hands were too soft, his face was too bright, his demeanor too warm for life on the ranch. but what business is it of his? why should he care? he'll figure it out on his own soon enough.

but he knows the other guys on the ranch just can't stand it either, can't stand this newbie who talks too much and asks too many questions. they loathe him, and honestly, Patrick pities Art. he's as oblivious as a newborn calf and it's almost painful to watch how he just can't take a hint. it's stupid, it's so stupid the way he feels sorry for this blonde kid fresh off the train from New Rochelle. he shouldn't. but he just can't help it, and it gets even worse when he comes back to their room one day and finds him crying on his bed, head in his hands.

those poor, high-pitched whining sounds he's making, the way his shoulders and his arms shake. he can't just stand there, and he sure as hell can't ignore it. he shuts the door quietly and kicks off his boots by their shared closet before walking to sit on his bed across from Art, his hands in his lap. he swallows before he opens his mouth."

“are you okay...?" he asks as softly as he can manage. Art just shakes his head, not meeting the brunette's eyes, his sobs softening just a little but not by much. Patrick hates the non response. it means he has to try again. "can i do anything.?"

Art sniffles and takes a shaky breath behind his fingers. "i—с-can you get me s-something frozen from the f-f-freezer.?" he asks through shaky sobs. Patrick nods, even if he knows Art can't see it, and walks to their mini fridge, pulling open the freezer door and grabbing a small bag of peas from inside. he steps back and offers it out to the blonde-but his heart stops when he finally gets a look at his face.

Art's pale skin is darkened by a large black and blue mark coloring his eye. it looks incredibly painful, and Patrick knows he doesn't have to ask who did it or why it happened. he already knows. so instead he just kneels down in front of Art and presses the bag of peas to his face, his heart clenching at the sound of the blonde's hiss of pain. "sorry." he murmurs, his free hand on Art's knee. "it's not your fault." he says pitifully. god, Patrick can barely stand it, his thumb rubbing over his skin through the denim of his jeans. he doesn't know what to say, other than he'll beat the shit out of those guys tomorrow. but that probably wouldn't be a comfort to him right now.

he sighs deeply. "do you want a cigarette?"

he looks like he works with his hands, and smells like Marlboro Reds

they sit together on Art's bed, the blonde pressing the bag of peas to his eye while nursing a shared cigarette with the other. it gets passed back and forth between them, the smoke blown into the quiet air. it's somehow soothing and yet, it makes Patrick's skin crawl a little. there are things he wants to say— 'it's not your fault', 'those guys are assholes," i could kick the shit out of them if you wanted' — but nothing would pass from his lips. instead they were stuck in this silence. well, that is until Art laughs wetly, a pitiful sound. "can't believe i let them get one over on me like that...it's worse i believed they actually liked me..." he reaches for the cigarette again, guiding it a little clumsily to his lips and taking a deep drag.

Patrick doesn't laugh though. he knows he bad loneliness affects people on the ranch, especially newbies. "those guys..are assholes." he all but whispers, his head hazy with smoke. "they just...don't really take to newbies well." he continues, taking the cigarette back for his own drag. it was a little more than a stub now, they'd need another soon. "but they are still assholes." he watches Art nod solemnly beside him, taking a breath before putting the pea bag down from his eye. "yeah. they are."

the mark is less angry, less swollen, but still dark. maybe even darker than before. Art tosses the bag to the foot of the bed, sighing as he leaned back on his hands. "i don't know why i thought talking so much would make them like me...i just—i don't fucking know." he gripes quietly, clearly frustrated by all of this. Patrick listens quietly as he finishes the cigarette and stubs it out in the ash tray by the window sill. "you just wanted to connect with them.." he tries. Art nods, his curls bouncing a little. "i guess so..it's just so lonely out here, is it so bad that i wanted to maybe chat with these guys on a lunch break or something?"

Patrick shakes his head, lying back. "no. but they've just been doing this for so long that it's almost impossible for them to find connection...enjoyable anymore. it's not you." and he knows it sounds fake, a stupid sentiment, but he's trying. because truthfully he likes this blonde cowboy, and he doesn't want him to feel like everyone here is out to get him. he glances over at Art, reaching to put a hand on his shoulder. "it really isn't you."

Art's baby blue's dart down to Patrick's hand, his face softening just a little at the contact. it's warm, it's soothing, it's welcome. he exhales softly. "thanks.." the silence that follows is a little tense, but not tense in an uncomfortable way-tense with warmth and something drawing them to each other. Art slowly leans himself back to lay next to Patrick on the bed, turning his face to meet those green eyes. they're beautiful.

there's just something about you, baby / maybe i'll just be crazy

neither of them are sure how it happens, who moved first, or even why-but sure enough their lips end up connected and they don't dare to part. Art melts, the feel of Patrick's lips against his rough and warm and all he could want after so many months alone. but deep down he knows this is different, this isn't just connection. Patrick sighs, his hand finding Art's waist and tugging him right up against him, the hard line of his body a welcome sensation.

the blonde's lips part for Patrick's tongue to slid against his own, the slickness of it making his stomach flip and turn with arousal he knows the brunette can feel growing against his thigh through his jeans. Patrick's hand on his hip encourages Art to rock against him, to relieve the ache however he wants. it makes a small moan slip through his pink lips between kisses. "shit..." it's breathy and perfect and it drives Patrick wild, his hand tightening on Art's hip, his thumb slipping under the waistband of his jeans for some skin-to-skin contact. Art tips his head back, feeling the brunette grind in rhythm against him and kiss at his jaw, his breaths hot against his skin. everything is hot and smells like wood and dirt and musk-it's perfect.

they go on and on, exchanging kisses as they grind against each other, soft moans and gasps of pleasure filling the room. it's more contact than either of them have had in months and they realize in this moment how badly they've needed this. Patrick's kisses sweep over Art's face, becoming tender as his lips press carefully against his bruised eye. Art hisses with pain and pleasure, his hips jerking forward. "Pat." Patrick whines, hips rolling faster against the blonde. he never wants him to stop saying his name like that. "Art, baby.."

it sneaks up on them both, but with another heated kiss and the grip of Patrick's hand sliding down to the back of Art's thigh to hoist it over his hip, they are soon flying over the edge of pleasure with groans and high pitched gasps, staining their jeans. they pant into each other's mouths, foreheads pressed tightly to one another as they breathe each other down from their highs. "god." Art pants out, his leg still hooked around Patrick's hip, keeping them slotted against one another like two puzzle pieces. Patrick chuckles breathlessly.

"yeah. goddamn." his hand keeps it's spot on Art's hip, rubbing there soothingly. he leans to press a soft kiss to his black eye. “if they give you anymore trouble, ill owe them all black eyes, cowboy."

[loeufnangs]

eli !! he/it + 19. previously @/loeuffangs. #1 josh o’connor fanboy. vampire lover. main blog: @hauntedh-ills.

about !! strictly 18+. minors will be blocked. nsfw ship writing. gruesome/taboo topics. asks are open to all. male + queer centered posts (never gender neutral, wlw, or mlw). cw for blood, smut, violence, religious themes + traumas, etc.

writing for !! challengers. spring awakening. anything josh o’connor. the passenger. like minds. superbat. jayvik.

k!nks !! forcemasc. blood. body worship. pet play. praise. light impact play. biting. marking. spit. priest k!nk.

tags !! #loeufwrites (original works + blurbs). #loeufloves (reposts). #loeuffangs (old blog works).

!! masterlist (coming soon).