#writing challenge 2021

[musingsofheaven]

NEEDLE AND SKIN.

piercer!dodge mason x bestfriend!reader

sfw. suggestive themes. slow burn. mutual tension. ♡

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… always walked you to class even when his wasn’t in the same direction. He will always be there. Sometimes, he even makes many possible reasons for walking you to class. He said he just needed the steps. You just accept that he'll always do that even though you know he was lying, especially when he matched your pace, even when you were dragging your feet. Of course, it has its perks. When your bag is heavy or when you have extra things that can't fit in your hands, he carries it for you without saying anything. You told him he was sweet. He shrugged like it was nothing since you’re his friend. But he smiled the whole rest of the day.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… let you wear his hoodie before he even knew it was an intimate thing. Sure, you could just lend people your hoodie, but they will hesitate. Dodge won’t. You'll just say “thanks” and wear it all day. Kept it overnight, too. Gave it back three days later, washed, folded, and smelling like your detergent. He buried his face in it when you weren’t looking and wore it many times after you returned it.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… always swore he’d never be a tattoo guy. Said he doesn’t like them because it looks messy on his skin. And then, in his senior year, he got a tiny one inside of his wrist. Minimalist tattoo, that’s what others call it. You were the first to see it because he excitedly lifted up his sweater to show you like a kid who just got a star. You touched it gently, thumb brushing the ink like a bruise. You didn’t even say anything; just smiled. And he thought: maybe he’d get more.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… swore he could do a piercing if you let him. You laughed at him at first. “You’re not even licensed yet.” He scoffed. “It’s just an ear. I watched, like, twelve videos.” You glare at him, but he keeps bugging you. Just an ear, he said repeatedly like a puppy begging his owner for something. You sat on the closed toilet lid in his bathroom while he opened a lighter and held a sewing needle over it like he knew what he was doing. Jesus, he’s not using the correct items like the professional ones. He’s just practicing on you, probably for precision or whatever he needs. You should’ve been nervous. But he looked so focused, serious like it mattered. His hands didn’t even shake. He said, “I’ll be gentle,” and you believed him.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… was weirdly quiet the whole time. Told you to sit still with his hand working on your ear. He even pulled your hair behind your ear and kept one hand on your jaw to steady you. His thumb brushed under your earlobe like he didn’t know where to rest it. The touch is so soft you could feel yourself shivering at it. You felt his breath near your cheek. “Okay,” he said. “Ready?” You nodded. He pierced it clean. No hesitation. Then, he swore under his breath when you bled more than he expected. You just laughed. He looked pale. “I didn’t kill you,” he muttered. “Not yet,” you smiled.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… gave you tiny silver stud earrings and said they looked good. Said it real quiet. Real quick. Like it embarrassed him, you looked in the mirror and tilted your head. You smile and just touch it, liking the gesture he just did. Like it’s something you should keep and treasure. “You did pretty good.” He leaned on the counter behind you, arms crossed, eyes on your reflection instead of the mirror. “‘Course I did,” he said, too cocky. “I don’t fuck around with you.” This is true, sometimes he’s too gentle and treating you like a goddamn glass.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… kept looking at your ear for weeks after that. Too concerned about it. Just casual glances. Sneaky ones. Pretended he was just checking if it healed okay. Like he’s scared, he fucked it up. Because what if it gets infected? Or you didn't take care of it properly? But every time you tucked your hair behind that side, his brain short-circuited a little. That was his. He did that. You let him do that.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… starts looking at you a little differently after that. It’s not sudden. It’s slow. Familiar. He starts noticing your perfume. The way your shirt rides up when you stretch. He notice what you like. Memorized it even. Starting to notice your ticks in your body. What make you shiver accidentally or where it tickles. How your breath catches when he stands too close. He doesn’t say anything. But it sits behind his eyes now- something unspoken, something warm.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… started apprenticing at a local shop straight out of high school. Said to himself that he needed the money for college. Didn’t even tell you at first. Just showed up one night smelling like antiseptic and ink. You raised a brow. “New cologne?” He rolled his eyes. “Shut up.” But he let you tease him. Let you ask questions. Let you check the piercings he’s studying for or learned that day. Let you visit the shop after hours just to see the equipment up close. You also notice how he has changed his style since he started apprenticing in the shop, and you tell yourself that maybe he’s just adapting to them.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… knows your order better than his own. He texts you, “u want anything?” every morning before he drives to work like it’s part of his routine. The shop already considers him a regular and also gives him the same orders. Always shows up with two drinks. Yours has the little smiley face he drew using a pen on the lid, even when the barista already wrote your name. He says it’s for good luck. Sometimes he’ll tell you because he has extra money for it. That’s no problem since it’s food, after all.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… lets you sit behind the counter when you visit. Sometimes, you pretend to help. You organize his jewelry cases and read out appointment times. The owner already knows you and has called you Dodge’s little friend. He says you’re his “cute little assistant,” and your stomach flips like it’s a real job title. He lets you pick the music that is really different from his. You make fun of his playlists. He just roll his eyes at you.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… still calls you “dude” but says it too soft now. Says it like a reflex, like muscle memory, but it always lands slower, warmer, heavier than it used to. Not the ones he used before that. It’s just something he used to call you. No… the tone changes. You didn’t notice it, but he has become more soft-spoken to you now. He’ll say, “Dude, you can’t just wear my hoodie without warning,” like it doesn’t make his stomach twist. Or, “Dude, stop looking at me like that,” like he’s not who started it. You will just roll your eyes at him when you heard it. Sometimes, it’s just “Dude-” and nothing else, the word hanging in the air before he runs a hand through his hair and laughs like it might burn the tension off before it sticks.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… calls you the second he gets certified. No warning, just a photo in your texts showing the certificate. You’re still typing when your phone rings; when you answer, he’s out of breath from smiling. “Dude,” he says, “I passed. I fucking passed.” You swear he’s blushing and smiling so big. Like it’s the best day in his life, probably it is. Of course, next to the time, you let him pierce you for the first time. You tease him- say something about all the illegal piercings- and he groans and tells you to shut up, still laughing. When you ask if you’re the first person he said, he doesn’t even pretend. “Obviously.”

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… makes you come to the shop to prove it as soon as possible. You’re on the counter with a drink you bought for him with some good to celebrate, and he’s holding the certificate like gold. You say you’re proud. He shrugs and says, “Took long enough,” but he can’t stop smiling. Then he looks at you, still grinning, and says, “You have to let me do the first legal one.” You raise a brow. He smirks. “Come on. Let me stab you the right way.”

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… won’t take your money. “I’m not charging you to pierce you,” he says, leaning back in his stool like he’s not tracking every shift of your thighs. He looks at you as if it’s the most dumb thing he heard, which is in his mind. Because what do you mean you’re paying when he loves doing it for free? You offer fries instead. He shrugs. “Deal.”

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… who lets you sit in the piercing chair to “test the height.” You swing your legs while he adjusts the stool and says something dumb about the new movie you saw, and it’s all hype but so fucking ugly. But he’s just looking at your legs. At the skin behind your knees. At the slope of your shoulder. He clears his throat. “Chair works.” You smirk. “Thought so.”

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… says “pretty” when he sees the new jewelry sitting on your skin. You look up at him. An eyebrow is already rising. “You mean the gem?” He doesn’t answer right away. Just shrugs. “Yeah. That too.” Then he turns away. Fast. Busying himself with gloves, cleaning, and anything but how you’re smiling now like you heard what he meant, but he’s occasionally glancing at you.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… memorizes how your skin feels under gloves. It’s not sexual. Not really. Not at first. He’s just good at his job. He knows which piercings you have given more sensory reactions to you. The ones that will make you shiver or goosebumps. He knows how to steady your face, clean the spot under your ear, and place the needle right where it needs to go. But still. Your skin is warm. You’re not shivering this time. Maybe it’s because you are getting used to the piercings and needles and his gloved hands. You look at him like you trust him. Like you expect him to take care of you. And he wants to. He always has.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… flirts like it’s a dare you won’t take. “You gonna let me do your tongue next?” he says. But in his mind, he wants to shoot himself by just saying it. Like what if you just shrug it off or laugh at it? Jesus. “You gonna kiss it better?” He smiles. Crooked. You roll your eyes, but your cheeks go warm. He notices. He always does.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… got too quiet when you asked if he’s ever done nipple piercings. “On girls?” His jaw twitched. “Yeah.” You didn’t ask what they looked like. He didn’t offer. The next day, you texted: what if I let you do mine? He didn’t answer right away. His mind just goes to places. Like, the one you stayed over at his place and you borrowed his shirt and did not wear in a bra underneath. Your nipples are so hard against it. He can’t stop thinking about it, especially now. When he replied, it’s sound so serious, like he’s not fucking around: don’t joke like that.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who’ll… do it if you ask. He will do. He will even beg you to do it. Fuck. That made him fantasize about it. He’ll hold the clamp. He’ll talk you through the pain. He’ll let you curse at him while he sets the jewelry. He’ll probably flick at it gently just to see you close your eyes at the pleasure and pain. But his hands will be shaking the whole time. And he’s not forgotten how you sound when you exhale through your teeth, soft and bitten-off, your thighs pressing together just a little too tight.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[minnie-cai]

༊*·˚ Working Man

pairing; mechanic!riff lorton x housewife!reader

tags/warnings; infidelity, significant age-gap marriage (older husband x younger reader), emotional neglect, implied marital coercion, sexual themes, references to fertility pressure, implied manipulation and gaslighting, mild period-typical misogyny, mentions of abandonment and child neglect, smoking and alcohol

word count; 4.1k

summary; In late 1950s West Side New York, you’re a young housewife stuck in a marriage built on duty, not desire. When a trip to the garage introduces you to Riff—a grease-stained, sharp-eyed mechanic who sees you for who you really are—it sparks a slow, dangerous unraveling. What begins with a glance becomes a ritual. And then, a reckoning.

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

The screen door creaks behind you as you step onto the sun-warmed porch, the hem of your yellow cotton dress brushing against your knees, a bit too modest for the way the July heat clings to your skin like syrup. The cicadas drone in the trees. Somewhere down the road, a radio blares a tinny tune, cheerful and out of place. You grip your woven basket in both hands like it’s a lifeline.

Your husband, Gene, had handed you two dollars that morning with a grunt and a half-mumbled list: tomatoes, string beans, new mason jar lids. And, as he’d said last night with a dry cough and that same tired glint in his eye—“We’ll try again tonight, alright sweetheart? You ain’t pregnant yet, and the Lord wants us fruitful.”

You hadn’t said much. Just nodded. You never said much around Gene.

The flea market’s only two blocks into town. You know the route by heart. Past the church with its peeling white paint, past the dry cleaners with the gossiping wives out front, past Joe’s Auto Repair, where the air always smells like hot rubber and gasoline.

That’s where you see him.

Leaning against the brick wall just under the “Goodyear Tires” sign, Riff is striking a match, cigarette pressed between his lips. His coveralls are unzipped to the waist, white tank undershirt clinging to sweat-dampened muscles like a second skin. His hair is slicked back, the kind of defiant wave no comb dares tame. Grease stains his hands, his forearms flex as he lights up, and for a moment, he squints toward the sun—and right at you.

You freeze like you’ve stepped barefoot on a snake.

His gaze lingers. Not in that polite, blink-and-gone way most men in town look at you. No, he sees you. His jaw ticks, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and you can’t look away even as your fingers tighten on the basket’s handle.

You walk past without a word, heart pounding too loud in your ears.

It’s three days later when Gene says he needs a belt picked up for the Ford. “Rattlin’ again,” he mutters, spitting into the sink after brushing his teeth. “Go down to Joe’s. I called ahead. They’ll have it.”

You know exactly who they is.

You take your time getting ready. Lipstick, just a little. Your best dress—powder blue, tight at the waist. When Gene leaves for work, you wait a full ten minutes before stepping out, basket empty this time, but your stomach full of nerves.

Joe’s is half-shadowed by the sun when you arrive. You walk through the open garage door and the air changes—warmer, louder, alive with the scent of oil, rust, and man. Tools clink. A radio plays slow blues from somewhere deep in the garage. You don’t see Joe.

But you see him.

He’s under the hood of a car, brow furrowed, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with grit. Riff.

He notices you instantly. Straightens. Wipes his hands on a rag. Doesn’t smile, but recognition flickers behind his eyes.

“You lost, girlie-girl?” he drawls, voice rough as gravel and twice as dangerous.

You try not to blush. Fail miserably.

“No,” you say, forcing a smile. “My husband called ahead. For a… a fan belt.”

“Right,” he says, tossing the rag onto the workbench without looking away from you. “Gene Miller’s wife. I remember the voice.”

He steps closer, close enough for you to smell the smoke and sweat and something else—raw masculinity. You tilt your chin up to meet his eyes, your throat dry.

“You got a name?”

You hesitate.

“It’s alright,” he says low, a smirk tugging at his lip. “I’ll learn it eventually.”

You don’t remember breathing until you’re walking back out with the belt in your hand, your fingers still tingling from where he brushed them handing it to you.

The affair doesn’t start that day.

But it starts then.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You told yourself you wouldn’t go back.

Gene had the belt. The car ran fine. There was no reason—none—for you to return to that garage. But the days after felt longer. The silence at home heavier. You went through your routines like a ghost, vacuuming rooms already clean, peeling potatoes with slow, mechanical hands, your thoughts drifting to smoke curling from a cigarette and forearms streaked with grease.

You start walking to town more. At first, it’s just to the market. Then the bakery. Then nowhere in particular.

But each time, you find yourself walking past Joe’s.

And sometimes—sometimes—he’s there.

It becomes a quiet ritual. A glance. A flick of his eyes to yours. He never waves, never calls out. But you feel his stare like it’s a hand on your back, pressing. Daring.

Until one morning, two weeks later, you walk past and he says, “You always in such a hurry, darlin’?”

You stop. The heat blooms across your chest like a sin exposed.

He’s sitting on the hood of a cherry-red Impala, legs apart, arms folded, like he owns the street and knows you’re about to fall to your knees on it.

“I—” you start. “I was just walking.”

His lip curls, not quite a smile. “Seems like you’re always just walking. But never stopping.”

You swallow. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The gold band on your finger glints in the sunlight. His eyes flick to it. Then back to your face.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

And just like that, he hops off the car and turns his back to you.

You stand there, stupid and burning.

The next day, you don’t pass by. You walk into the shop.

He’s under another car when you come in, and your heart is hammering hard enough you feel it behind your eyes. You wait until he slides out from under the chassis, rag in one hand, hair damp with sweat.

“Well,” he says, looking you over slowly. “Didn’t expect to see you on purpose.”

You walk in further, past the signs that say “Employees Only,” past the point of decency.

“I was just… in the area,” you lie, voice barely more than a whisper.

He leans against the lift, folds his arms again. His eyes don’t leave yours. “That what you told your husband?”

You flush. Look down.

He chuckles. A rough sound. “Don’t be shy now, doll. You came all this way.”

Something in you snaps. Or frees itself.

You raise your chin. “I wanted to see you.”

That silences him. His gaze sharpens like a blade.

He doesn’t move. Not yet.

But he nods toward the back. “Come on. Office is quieter.”

You follow him past stacks of tires and the smell of gasoline, your heels clicking on the concrete. The office is small, hot, and dim. A fan rattles on the desk. There’s a chair, a filing cabinet, and not much else.

He closes the door behind you with a soft click.

The sound is deafening.

“Alright,” he says, stepping closer. “Now what?”

You open your mouth. No words come out.

So he steps even closer, and now your back is to the filing cabinet and there’s nowhere to run.

“You got a name?” he murmurs again, slower this time, like he wants you to hear what it sounds like on his tongue.

You whisper it.

He repeats it, almost reverent.

And then he leans down, just enough so you can feel his breath on your neck.

“You sure you wanna do this?” he asks. “Once I touch you, sweetheart, you don’t get to pretend anymore.”

You nod.

Barely.

And then his lips are on yours.

Not gentle. Not soft. But hungry—like he’s been waiting for this moment since that first glance on the street, and he’s done pretending it’s anything but what it is.

His hands cup your face first, then slide down, rough and warm, smearing a faint line of grease across your cheek. He tastes like smoke and something wild. Your fingers curl into the front of his coveralls and pull.

You don’t care about the ring.

You don’t care about Gene.

You only care about this.

This heat.

This escape.

This man.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You’ve never floated home before.

The pavement barely exists beneath your feet. The houses blur past like half-painted scenery, the smell of motor oil clinging to your skin like perfume. Inside, your mouth still tingles. Every part of you feels rewired—sensitive, alive, flushed with the echo of Riff’s mouth and the pressure of his body against yours.

You touch your lips once before stepping through your front door.

Inside, the kitchen smells like stew. You’d left it bubbling low before you went to town—Gene likes it with potatoes and thick carrots, heavy on the salt. You pull your apron on, check the oven, and set the table, your hands moving on instinct while your mind spins somewhere else. Somewhere far from the sterile yellow wallpaper, from Gene’s heavy footsteps and the muted clink of his belt buckle tossed onto the nightstand.

You’re humming.

You never hum.

Gene notices.

He walks in around six, same as always, rubbing his back like he always does, frowning at his shoulder like it’s personally failed him.

But then he looks up.

And he stops.

“Huh,” he grunts, dropping his coat on the chair. “You look… different.”

You tilt your head. Smile a little. “Different how?”

He squints, like you’re a painting someone hung crooked.

“You’re glowin’ or somethin’. Been in the sun too long?”

You shake your head. “Just had a nice walk.”

Gene grumbles approval. “Maybe it helped clear your head. Been uptight lately.”

You serve him stew. He eats in big bites, loud, satisfied. You barely touch yours, too busy sipping the warmth of remembered heat off your tongue. Your thighs press together under the table. You think of grease-streaked fingers pressing into your hips. A voice rasping in your ear.

After dinner, you wash dishes in the sink. You feel Gene’s eyes on your back.

That quiet, calculating look.

Then his voice, low and hopeful. “Why don’t you get ready for bed early tonight?”

You pause, the dish slipping slightly in your hand.

“Sure,” you say.

You brush your hair longer than usual. You don’t bother with the long nightgown—just the slip. You crawl under the sheets, and when Gene joins you, the mattress sags the same way it always does.

But you are different.

He kisses your neck—clumsy, always too damp—and usually you lie still and wait for it to end. You let him climb over you, breathe heavy, grind and grunt like a tired machine hoping it’ll work if it just tries hard enough.

But tonight��

Tonight you close your eyes.

And picture Riff.

You pretend it’s his mouth on your collarbone.

His weight pressing you down.

His voice whispering filth.

You arch without thinking. Your hips move with rhythm. Your mouth falls open and lets out a soft, startled moan.

Gene freezes.

“…You alright?”

You moan again—louder this time—and grip his shoulders. You’re not even looking at him. Your eyes are locked on the dark ceiling, vision painted with the image of Riff’s face between your thighs.

Gene pulls back slightly, looking down at you.

You’ve never looked like this. Not once.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” he asks, almost suspicious. “You drunk?”

You shake your head, panting. “Don’t stop.”

Your voice is breathy. Needful. Almost pleading.

Gene hesitates.

Then he picks up the pace—clumsy, encouraged—and you turn your head away, biting your knuckles as you come with a soft gasp, thinking only of the man who kissed you like you were made of fire and sin.

When it’s over, Gene collapses next to you, panting.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Then: “You ain’t never sounded like that before.”

You don’t answer.

He glances over at you.

You’re smiling.

Just a little.

And that unsettles him more than your moans ever could.

You don’t knock this time.

You walk into the garage like you belong there, the morning sun casting long shadows across the concrete floor. It’s early. Earlier than any decent housewife should be out without a reason. But you didn’t want decent today. You wanted him.

Riff’s got his head under the hood again, sleeves pushed up, tank top stained, a smudge of oil across his jaw. You just stand there for a second, watching him.

He looks like a man who moves. A man who works for what he has. Sweat down his neck. Grease under his nails. No gold watch. No sagging belly, no sagging expectations. Just muscle, movement, and heat.

And he’s your age. Your actual age.

When he hears your footsteps, he straightens—glances over, then grins.

“Well, look who came crawling back.”

You lean against the nearest workbench, crossing your arms under your chest. “You knew I would.”

He chuckles, tossing his wrench onto the tray. “Yeah. But I figured it might take longer.”

You try to act casual. You really do.

But then he’s walking toward you, wiping his hands, and your heart starts doing that desperate little dance again. He gets close enough that the heat rolls off him in waves.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and real.

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“You got that look again. Same one you had when you walked in the first time. All quiet, like you’re tryin’ not to scream.”

You smile faintly. “I feel better now.”

“Yeah?” He steps in, closer. “Tell me why.”

You don’t hesitate. “Because I kissed someone my age yesterday. Someone who doesn’t make me feel like I’m just a hole for babies and hot dinner.”

He stiffens—just a little. Eyes narrowing.

You go on. “Gene’s twice my age. You know that?”

“I figured.” He crosses his arms, watching you now like a puzzle he wants to solve with his hands. “He treat you like a kid, too?”

“He treats me like a recipe. Do this. Be that. Bake it right and it turns into a son.”

Riff’s jaw ticks.

You look up at him. “You—you don’t look at me like that. You don’t talk down to me. You look at me like I’m… I don’t know. A woman. One you actually want.”

He leans in, nose almost brushing yours. “That’s because you are one.”

You close your eyes for a second, breathing in the scent of him—sweat, metal, Marlboros.

“And you’re the first man I’ve kissed,” you whisper, “who didn’t taste like medicine and stale whiskey.”

That gets him.

He groans low in his throat, hands going to your waist, pulling you to him with that same casual control that makes your knees weak. His lips are on yours again, but this time it’s slower—surer. Like he’s claiming the moment, not just stealing it.

When he finally breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You know how good it feels,” he mutters, “to be wanted by someone who sees you?”

You nod. You know exactly.

You look down at your fingers on his chest. “I dreamed about you last night.”

He smirks. “Yeah? You think about me while you’re lying next to that old bastard?”

You nod again.

“Did he touch you?”

Another nod.

“Did you moan for him?”

You bite your lip.

“Or was it for me?”

Your breath shudders. “For you.”

He laughs once, dark and pleased.

“Good girl.”

And the thing is—it doesn’t feel demeaning. Not like it would coming from Gene.

It feels earned. Shared. Desired.

You don’t feel small. You feel dangerous.

Because for the first time, you’re not just somebody’s wife.

You’re his.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It’s a slow afternoon at the garage.

Clouds hover like a threat overhead, thick and swollen with late-summer rain. The air smells like hot pavement and ozone, and inside the garage, it’s quiet except for the distant hum of the fan.

Riff’s stretched out on the creeper, legs splayed, one boot tapping a lazy rhythm on the concrete. You’re sitting on an overturned milk crate, sipping a soda he pulled from the machine out back, glass bottle sweating in your hand.

Neither of you’s in a rush today.

“You always this quiet?” he asks suddenly, voice drifting from beneath the Buick he’s half-tucked under.

You glance over at him. “Only when I’m thinking.”

“What are you thinking about?”

You pause. Then answer honestly.

“That I’ve never had a moment like this before. Just… sitting. Talking. Not waiting for someone to need something from me.”

Riff slides out from under the car and props himself on one elbow, looking at you with an expression that’s more curious than flirtatious for once.

“No one ever talks to you?”

“They talk at me. Gene does. The women at church do. But it’s always about dinner or babies or what makes a good wife.” You swirl the soda in the bottle. “Nobody really asks what I like.”

Riff wipes his hands on a rag and tosses it aside. “Alright then. What do you like?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“I’m askin’. What you like. Not your husband. Not your preacher. You.”

You bite your lip. “I like walking alone when it’s not too hot. I like when songs on the radio end soft, like they’re afraid to leave. I like the smell of cigarette smoke—but only on you.”

He chuckles, low and surprised. “That last one’s dangerous, sweetheart.”

“I know.”

He sits up, resting his arms on his knees, eyes never leaving you now. “You ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t… you know. Stuck.”

“All the time.”

“What’s the dream, then?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. It used to be getting married. That’s what girls are told to want. A house, a man, a family. But now…” You shake your head. “Now I just want a place where I can sit with someone and not feel like I’m playing a part.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then: “That’s not a dream. That’s just being free.”

You nod slowly. “Maybe that’s the new dream, then.”

Riff leans back against the wall. “You could have that, you know.”

“I could have it with you?”

He doesn’t smile. But he doesn’t look away either.

“I think you already do.”

You let the silence settle between you, not heavy—just full. Full of what hasn’t been said yet. What might never be.

But for now, it’s enough.

You sip your soda and let him work, and he lets you sit close, and for the first time in what feels like years, you don’t feel like you’re in someone else’s story.

You feel like you’ve started your own.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It rains harder than it has all summer.

Thick drops pound the roof of the garage, echoing like war drums, rattling the roll-up door. The sky is dark, wind slashing through the trees out back. The kind of storm that keeps everyone home. Everyone but you.

You showed up soaked to the knees, breathless from running the last few blocks, cardigan clinging to your shoulders. You didn’t even knock. You just walked in, giggling like the place belonged to you now.

Riff didn’t say a word—just grabbed a faded shop towel and started drying your arms, slow and careful, like you were something breakable. He came close. His cigarette was barely hanging off his lips and his brows were furrowed while he mumbled something about how you’re going to get sick. Your head tilted to watch his face with a soft smile before you playfully started pressing small kisses around his face, making him break into a reluctant grin.

Now you’re both sitting in the garage office, the cot folded down, the air heavy with petrichor and engine oil. You’ve got a blanket wrapped around you, hair still damp, and he’s sitting at the edge of the cot, nursing a cigarette between two fingers.

Neither of you’s in a rush to speak.

Eventually, you do.

“You ever think about leaving this place?” you ask, voice soft under the noise of the storm.

Riff exhales smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling.

“All the time.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

He glances over at you, one brow raised. “Maybe for the same reason you haven’t.”

You look away.

“Where would you go?” you ask instead.

“Out west,” he says without hesitation. “Arizona. Maybe New Mexico. Somewhere hot and dry where the air don’t stick to your skin. I’d open my own shop. One I could name after something that’s mine.”

You smile a little. “What would you call it?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know. Maybe after a girl.”

You go still.

He looks over again, something warmer in his eyes now.

“Not sayin’ who. Just… maybe.”

The rain softens outside, just a little, turning to that gentler rhythm you could fall asleep to if you let yourself.

“You ever miss your family?” you ask after a pause.

He goes quiet at that.

“I don’t know if you can miss what never really felt like yours,” he says eventually. “Old man drank himself into a pine box before I hit ten. Ma packed up and left a year later. I learned early not to expect anyone to stay.”

You reach over and take the cigarette from his fingers, press it to your lips. It’s still warm. Tastes like him. You hand it back.

“I’m still here,” you say.

“For now,” he replies.

There’s no accusation in it. No bitterness. Just truth.

You scoot closer. Press your side against his. The blanket shifts with you, and he lets you lean into him, lets you rest your head on his shoulder like you belong there.

“You know the worst part?” you whisper.

“What?”

“I never used to think I deserved more than what I had. Not until you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then:

“You always deserved more. You just needed someone to remind you how to want it.”

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

Inside, you hold that warmth like a secret between your ribs.

You don’t kiss him.

You don’t have to.

He just puts his arm around your shoulder, keeps you close, and for once, neither of you needs anything else.

Not yet.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The next time you see Riff, the sky is overcast, thick with the smell of rain and exhaust.

You don’t bring a list. You don’t need a reason.

He knows that now.

You step into the garage and he doesn’t ask why. He just looks up from under the hood of a pickup and wipes his hands, like he’s been waiting for you since the moment you walked away last time.

“I’ve only got ten minutes,” you say softly.

“That’s enough.”

It is.

You’re in the back of the shop again, this time not quite naked, but close enough—his hands up your skirt, your mouth on his throat, the ache in you too loud to ignore. Every breath is a betrayal, and yet it’s the most honest thing you’ve done in years.

When it’s over, you lie there in the quiet, legs tangled in his, your head on his shoulder. The fan hums. The radio crackles something low and moody from the next room.

“I thought about leaving,” you whisper.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just runs a hand through your hair, fingers slow and thoughtful.

“Thought about what I’d pack. Where we’d go.”

Still nothing.

Then finally—carefully—he says, “But you didn’t.”

You shake your head against his chest. “Not yet.”

He exhales through his nose. A short, humorless sound.

“Still waiting for the right moment?” he asks.

“I don’t know if there is a right moment.”

He shifts beneath you, not angry, just aware—that edge creeping back into his voice.

“Or maybe you’re just waitin’ for someone to decide for you.”

That stings.

Because he might be right.

But you sit up slowly, smoothing your dress, and look at him with eyes that have seen two lives now—the one you were assigned, and the one he lets you steal piece by piece.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“You already don’t have me,” he says, soft but sharp. “Not really.”

You lean down, kiss him slow—less like a goodbye, more like a promise.

“I have this,” you murmur. “And I’m not done with it.”

He grabs your wrist before you pull away. Not to stop you. Just to feel you. Like he doesn’t trust you’ll come back, even though you always do.

“You come when you need to,” he says. “But don’t expect me to wait forever.”

You nod. “I know.”

You slip out the door, heart tight in your throat, and walk home under the drizzle with your stockings damp and your lips tingling from his kiss.

Gene is in the living room, snoring in his chair.

You step over his feet, hang your coat like nothing happened, and start peeling potatoes for dinner.

Outside, thunder rumbles softly in the distance.

Inside, your pulse still hasn’t slowed.

There’s no decision yet.

Just want.

And the quiet, steady promise that you’ll find your way back to Riff again.

Because you always do.

[sunsburns]

thinking about good ol’ dodge mason who is utterly in love and very much obsessed with you, his hot girlfriend. and i’m talking head over heels, would do anything, and everyone needs to know who his girlfriend is and how much he loves and adores you and.. well, how he gets to fuck you.

he keeps photos of you and him in his wallet. and he rotates the pictures around every week or so, and takes a new one of you whenever he can. it’s definitely not in a creepy or perverted way. totally not. just in a way that he can see you when he's away, or jerk off to something when you're gone.

he just loves to show you off, can’t believe a girl like you would be down to be for a guy like him. how you saw him in a crowded room, how you want him around, how you kiss him gently as the sun rises, how your laugh makes his stomach turn and cheeks flush, how you say his name in bed like he’s the only person in the world you know. the breathless, whiny moans of his name, slipping form between your lips, getting caught in the back of your throat. yea, he loves that shit.

[voidsuites]

i want your time (don’t ask me questions)

“SORRY… just give me a sec,” the blond man above you huffs, muscular arms on both sides of your head as he keeps himself propped above you. he adjusts on his elbows with a small grunt, eyes narrowed in enough frustration to create that familiar little crease between his brows. “one second, i promise.”

he’s making you— your body, really— wait. not intentionally, of course, but it’s happening regardless. there’s been a handful of moments in art’s life where his body’s put him in this kind of position; freezing under pressure when he needs it to perform.

it’d happened the night he’d asked tashi to be his coach— she’d said yes, they’d gone back to her hotel room, things had gotten heavy— but of course he’d got caught up in his head and things hadn’t… risen to the occasion. they’d gotten there eventually with tashi’s encouragement, but it’s just humiliating that it’d happened then— and now it’s happening again.

tashi had always been able to coax it out of art with her no-nonsense outlook, and before her it’d been patrick and his devil-may-care attitude. they both knew how to read him in their own unique ways, whatever needed to get done to get art where he needed to be and to get things over the finish line.

so maybe he’s still figuring things out— figuring you out. where you fit in into all of this… whatever role you’re meant to play in the twisted process of getting art out of his own head. are you going to coach him up or goad him into oblivion?

“i’m sorry,” he hisses again, and with another grunt he drops to the mattress beside you and lays flat on his back. it takes all of the strength within him not to just fist his fingers into his hair and pull it out in clumps. “fuck.”

he can’t bear to look at you; you’re probably looking at him like he’s some broken thing that you hadn’t signed up for when you agreed to go steady. you’re younger— younger than he’d normally go for considering he’s got lily and the tabloids are always looking for a reason to follow him around— but you’re an angel and he’s been awful with saying no to the things he can’t have now that he’s retired and single.

long gone are the days of “earning” breaks from trainings and longing looks at the things not on his diet plan (no more need to sneak fries from lily’s happy meals) but what good is having the freedom to do and have what he wants when he can’t even get it up?

you’d signed up for art donaldson, not some middle-aged guy who can’t get it together and make his partner feel just as good as they do with him. what good was his body if it couldn’t perform? he couldn’t be there for patrick, couldn’t continue playing for tashi—

art stands in a huff and pulls the waistband of his briefs up over his hips before his hands rest on his hips. he starts pacing the length of the bed, but not without looking your way guiltily while you pull the bedsheets up over yourself and make his stomach plunge. damnit, donaldson.

“i-it’s not you,” he reasons, because it’s the truth, “it’s me. i can’t get out of my damn head—”

“art,” you try and cut in, but he’s not having it. not when he’s like this. “art, babe, what’s wrong—”

oh, god… here we go again. stop asking questions. “nothing, just give me a second—”

“— art, hold on—” stop prying, stop trying to find a way in—

“— this happens sometimes. i promise it’s not you—”

“art.” he barely has time to protest again when your hand clamps around his wrist, nor does he try to. your eyes have gone wide as they plead for him to make sense; to put words to thoughts and actions to those words. “… baby. talk to me.”

and he melts, broad shoulders sagging before he drops back to the mattress. it should be worrisome to see a man like him practically cave in on himself when he lays back on the mattress, but it’s the rare side of art donaldson that the media doesn’t get a glimpse of. here in this moment, he’s less of the unshakable tennis mogul the public knows him for and more of the mortal man desperate for comfort that lies beneath.

“will you… will you hold me?” art asks eventually, swallowing tightly when he looks over in your direction again. you’d think he’d asked for the impossible with the way he holds himself; hunched shoulders, downcast eyes, and blunt nails digging into the heels of his palms. “please?”

he doesn’t know how you’ll react— if you’ll laugh at such a request, scoff and look at him with disdain— but none of that comes. instead, you scoot his way and let your arms wind around him and your chin settle into the crook of his shoulder.

“i can do that,” you whisper. gentle fingers trace the skin of his side, over the dips and grooves of his ribs. “whatever you need— whatever you want.”

he swallows again, ignoring the guilt in his chest as he nods. “okay.” he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t waiting for the “but” to leave you; waiting for the other shoe to fall in return for your patience… but it doesn’t. it’s not going to. maybe that’s where you fit into all of this: being the unwavering support that allows him to bend even when it goes against all expectation.

his calloused fingers curl around your own after another stroke over his torso, and slowly but surely he brings them to his lips to press a kiss over your knuckles. “i love you.”

if he can’t show it to you by following you blindly for years on end or by winning you endless slam titles to prove it, maybe the words are enough. maybe they can be enough, this time.

and maybe he can be enough too. no more tennis to eat up all his time (even if he misses it on occasion) just the things that are important and matter. lily, the foundation, you… and everything else he’ll keep himself open to.

“i love you too.” art’s sure his sigh of relief doesn’t go unnoticed by you, considering the early hour and the air of silence that accompanies it in moments like this. you shift closer and—

… oh. there we go. a snort leaves the blond as he shakes his head, glancing down briefly before he turns to you with that boyish grin of his.

“… were you still up for another round?”

[akakumoeteru]

Thinking of you.

[duu-kiwi]

I bet aziraphale wrote about the day the universe was made, about the angel whose voice recited the words that created the stars, about how bright they shone, and still shine, in those angel eyes✨🪐

Here you have some detailss and a cropped version with just!! them!!!

edit: prints link !

[jordiemeow]

jo's 500 follower alphabet game ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

status: open

little bit late but hey that's on brand at this point! thank u for all the support it's crazy to believe i've only been running this account since february. i adore you all shoutout to oomfs and the anons that interact w my inbox :)) much love from ireland

considered doing just a regular alphabet but i couldn't choose a character n figured it was more fun to be interactive this way !

☆ rules

➴ send in an ask with a letter, character + specify which list you want it from

➴ characters can be from any fandom - not just limited to challengers. more inclined to write for anything in my pinned or that i have bots for

➴ will be done in no specific order!

➴ no guarantees as to which i'll answer. some may be headcanons, short blurbs, others might inspire longer fics.

➴ letters can be redeemed more than once for different characters

➴ everything will be tagged under #jo celebrates ⋆˚࿔

☆ alphabet masterlists

➴ nsfw list

➴ sfw list

taglist: @gracelynnx @tacobacoyeet @blastzachilles @cha11engers @magicalmiserybore @newrochellechallenger2019 @coolgrl111 @artspats @peachyparkerr @stanart4clearskin @misswrldd @kaalxpsia @downtwngrl @pittsick @strfallz @dazedandconfusedlvr @turnerrst @m4lodr4ma @artdonaldsonmalewife @challengersism @artstennisracket @elsieblogs @lvve-talks @idyllicdaydreams @won-every-lottery @thischarmingchimp @fairytrollslut @ellaynaonsaturn @xoxoeviee @voidsuites @cryinginanuncoolway (join here)

[newrochellechallenger2019]

300 followers celebration!!!

omg i just hit 300 followers!!! thank you so so much, i'm in tears right now, i know i'm probably one of the smaller blogs on here but i honestly never thought i'd have so many people interested in what i have to say about a movie that came out a year ago, especially when i've only been here less than a year!!! sorry for the ramble, but i want to say thank you to all my lovely mutuals for being so sweet and supportive and i've honestly had some of my best times chatting with you guys <33 ugh i love challengersblr <33

anyway, to celebrate this momentuous occasion, i'm doing a writing game! this is inspired by @voidsuites, @leftoverghosts and so many more users who do these album inspired posts/ask games!!

'but merry? how do you play?' what a great question that i can definitely hear you all asking...

roll your dice and pick three things: a song, a character and a genre!

the album: stick season (forever) by noah kahan

northern attitude

stick season

all my love

she calls me back

come over

new perspective

everywhere, everything

orange juice

strawberry wine

growing sideways

halloween

homesick

still

the view between villages

your needs, my needs

dial drunk

paul revere

no complaints

call your mom

you're gonna go far

forever

characters i write for:

art donaldson

patrick zweig

tashi duncan

riff lorton

dodge mason

connor murphy

arthur (la chimera)

genre:

smut

fluff

angst

[dodgesgirl]

you guys i can't do this anymore i need dodge mason more than anything... i literally cry when i remember i will never have him. i want him and i need him and nothing hurts me more than the fact he's so incredibly underrated and isn't ever written about or talked about it's actually tragic someone please console me

[schmedterlingfreud]

🌸 Day [41 of 100] of Productivity 🌸

Writing: - La cosa più pericolosa; Chapter 23 (... completed and posted!)

I've started updating this longfic again after months, hooray! We have reached the critical point in the story: almost halfway through (baby Alberto is approaching 💙​💜), and I have to admit that this transition is not exactly too easy to write, because we're about to reach the very true Turning Point and I feel a bit anxious, ahah. But I really can't wait to write and share the rest of the story (and especially to find out if the overall project will be a satisfactory result), so I'll do my best to not disappoint those readers who I know were eagerly waiting for it. :) One more chapter, and then the central narrative arc will begin. In the meantime, I'm also continuing to work on the other upcoming projects, so stay tuned!

Reading: - All Quiet on the Western Front, by Erich Maria Remarque - Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, by Gregory Maguire (... very interesting prose and writing. I'm not a fan of the Oz's Lore, and I haven't seen the last movie, but this book is a surprise!)

Listening to: Ijime, Dame, Zettai, by Babymetal

Snacking on: Salted caramel M&M's

Extra: Very tiresome week (at work we all went crazy due to some reparations to our industrial machines), and I can't wait it to be over. Fingers crossed, I don't have extra hours on Saturday. Despite all of this, I'm very, very happy to have started updating the longfic again. I found out that writing in bed is more relaxing and prolific than I was expecting it to be. So nice to have my feet warm under the covers. :3 At the latest hours of the evening, I can hear birds singing and chirping outside the balcony. Despite the cold nights, Spring is truly here! 🌸

[rosaaeles]

rereading my first thg fics... seventeen year old me was something else i want what she was on like "His hands on her face feel like summer and spring against the wreckage that she’s become." i'll never top this i fear

[musingsofheaven]

BLESS THIS MESS

summary: cruel intentions inspired but make it stanford, tennis and country clubs. pretty lies, perfect masks, and a bet between the two of them that’s will lead into something more deeper.

pairings: art donaldson!sebastian valmont/lucien belmont x reader!kathryn/caroline merteuil.

warnings: 4.6k words. mature themes. non-biological step-siblings. emotional manipulation. power imbalance. voyeurism. recorded sexual acts. sexual self-indulgence. toxic relationship dynamics. d/s undertones. morally gray behavior.

note: this one’s been living in my head rent-free ever since i rewatched the movie. i swear i’m not like them (promise), but i love writing about fucked-up people. so i might keep this going. (if people like it) should i make a specific tag for it? (and reposted… the last one is shadowbanned.)

Introducing… Reader!Kathryn/Caroline Merteuil. You’re the sweetest girl at Stanford. Everyone says so. Because how could they not say that? You just have that face that people… People feel comfortable being with, the one people trust. That soft, approachable, pretty, not intimidating… God no! You don’t even have a resting bitch face, and not too sexy, just right. Your lips? Always glossed but not over-lined and not messy. Never messy. Your lashes curled, and you even have extensions, but not the kind that will cover your beautiful eyes. You have a smile on your whole face like you mean it. You practiced smiling perfectly so that people don’t know it’s fake. You smile and pretend you don’t know what they want from you.

You RSVP early, you make them feel special because, aw, you remembered! You send handwritten notes using an expensive pen and it shows how expensive it is. You bake when you’re stressed, of course, you know how to bake. Your mother made you take lessons for it to cure your boredom because she couldn’t give you attention. Making the actual shit from scratch and leaving extras in the kitchen like some fairy. You show up to worship on Sundays with a notebook in your designer bag and you make sure that your hair is fixed enough to show your face like you’re ready to listen, to repent, to believe.

You wear dresses that hug your curves and touch past your thighs. It looks sweet, but not slutty, never slutty… unless it’s for parties. But not much that your soul will show. You love that beige heels. Don’t start with pink nails… always your color. Not a single hair tie on your wrist, that looks cheap. You are not cheap. When you hug people, you mean it. Or do you? Maybe you are rolling your eyes behind their back when you hug them. When you speak, you’re careful. You don’t want the wrong people to hear you talking shit, right? You never drink too much. You don’t black out drunk like other girls. Pretty girls know how to handle their liquor, you always say. Never talk too loud. The whole world doesn’t need to hear your voice. Never post anything that could get you called out, or canceled. Your digital footprint is so squeaky clean, that it makes your stalkers angry when they can’t find anything about you.

You are, to put it simply, perfect.

And the thing about being perfect is? Everyone wants a piece of you.

They want to be you.

Or they want to be inside you.

Either works.

It’s not old news to you when you overheard that line because it happened more than once, blurt out like a joke but meant like a prayer.

“Dude, I’d sell a kidney to fuck her.”

“I wanna be her or be in her. I don’t even care which. Is that too lesbian to say?”

“She’s, like… wife material. Just look at her. But she’s also…? Kind of terrifying.”

You always play dumb. You love to make people think you’re some dumb girl. You just tilt your head. Blink at the words you are hearing. You give a sweet smile like you don’t know what they’re talking about. That’s part of it. That’s what makes it work because you act clueless.

You are the definition of classy. Elegant. Polished. That’s what they call you. The kind of girl their moms would trust because of how you present yourself and how your reputation reflects and their daughters side-eye in secret because your name has been brought up to compare to them when they do shit and their mother found out. They think you run your sorority because you're kind, you’re a leader, and you’re inspirational. Well…

They think your power comes from being likable. That’s adorable. So fucking cute.

It’s hidden behind the curtains how you move every piece like a chess. They don’t see the way how you play girls off each other while you hand them the tissues because they teared up. You knew they would cry because you made sure to hit the right spots. The way you just play dumb and act you like don’t see how those stupid frat boys humiliate themselves just to talk, sit, or get a piece of you. You will hear those girls change their tone when they asked how you do it, meaning, how you stay so nice, so cool, so together, and you just bat your lashes and smile like you are saying that it’s a secret, like it’s luck, like you didn’t a personal notes, journal, or board to plan every goddamn inch of it. Maybe people will tell you to have OCD when they discover how obsessed you are with details when you plan something.

Because being the perfect girl? That’s not luck.

It’s precision. It’s strategy. It’s control.

But hey, what they don’t know won’t hurt them. Like they don’t know that you blackmailed three girls off your rush list this rush season alone. It didn’t cause any scandal, not really. It didn’t happen accidentally. You pulled the trigger as if you already knew the weight of consequences, you don’t have consequences, only them because they fucked you up.

The first girl? She just happened to hook up with one of your girls' boyfriends. What a home wrecker. She’s sloppy, too sloppy. She left with hickeys and even got caught on someone’s finsta at 3AM in his hoodie, sneaking out of the house in Rowan Neighbourhood. Such a reckless girl. What's worse is you don’t enjoy it much because you don’t have to dig for that one. You just watched your sister cry in the bathroom stall and thought, what a shame that bitch did that to your girl. She would’ve looked cute in your color if she got accepted. But the betrayal? Off brand. You don’t need another stress. So you crossed her off the list with a note beside her name saying she’s a home wrecker bitch. Sent her that cute letter of yours saying that she’s “not the right fit.” Before you sent your sister’s cheating ex-boyfriend a screen recording of her DMing one of the frat pledges two nights later. You have to put a little extra touch.

Oh don’t get started with the second girl. It’s humiliating when you find out. She had an academic record from high school that looked clean, too good to be true. Your guts just told you something is wrong so you ran it through the software your ex-boyfriend built you to find dirt about someone. Cheating scandal. What in the hell? Almost expelled for buying an exam answer key from a user from Reddit. As usual, covered up. By who? Her parents. Use a donation move. Money is power. But you smiled when you found it. Nothing screams “walking scandal” like an academic shady record before you even step into college. Of course, you could be a little bit dramatic. You printed out the report you found and put it in her rush envelope with a sticky note, a pink one, saying, “Maybe next year.” You don’t want girls who cheat in your circle anyway.

Ah. The last one. Well, this is kind of funny and petty. She clumsily spilled a full glass of red wine on your white silk Valentino at a welcome dinner for the rush. You noticed the nervous hands. Shaking apology. Hm. You didn’t yell even yell, didn’t scream at her face even if you wanted to, didn’t even flinch. Just smiled with teeth… nodding before you said, “Don’t worry about it.” Then her name was gone off the list the moment the dinner was over. That dress was custom-made only for you. She was clumsy. It will be funny if it’s not on a special day or when you won’t get humiliated. It’s not that deep, you know that, but deep enough to be memorable, enough to remember the stains on your dress. People don’t like humiliation especially when you have an image in that place. If you let one girl get away with embarrassing you in public by just acknowledging and accepting her awful apology, the rest will start to think they can too. You can’t have that. Never.

You didn’t lie. Well, not that they can catch your lie, right? You didn’t threaten. Not in a way they can pick up that it’s a threat you are saying. You didn’t even raise your voice.

You just let them spiral on their own.

Stanford runs on the image. Reputation. Control. You don’t want to be a social suicide. Ew. You don’t just maintain yours, you crochet it little by little like a kid needs a hobby to focus on. Your hands are clean, it’s like you wear expensive princess gloves just not to let them get dirty. Your hands? They never touch anything directly. Everything goes through someone else because they are desperate to do your favors. You let everyone else dirty theirs trying to reach you.

Because you’re the girl everyone wants to be.

Or be inside.

Or both.

And they will never know how ugly it gets underneath.

Except him.

And when something calls for a messier touch?

You have Art.

Your stepbrother, unfortunately. Stanford’s favorite golden boy. Tennis prodigy. He’s good to the point you will wish he would shove his racket inside you and rearrange your guts. Even he walks in soft clothes, all sweat and baby curls, and the kind of smile that every grandmother loves? Expect that people are giving him the fuck me eyes. But he’s yours. Not officially, not publicly. He’s yours in all the ways that count. He knows that too.

He follows you. Lapdog is the word you will describe him. Too eager to please you. Too desperate. You use that in your favor. You send him out like a dog in heat. He fucks who you tell him to fuck. Mostly the girls from your list. Sometimes the ones you hate. And he records them. What a sick fuck, people will say if they know it.

Not for blackmail. (Okay, sometimes for blackmail.)

You give him the name and a smile. Sometimes it’s just a text saying, “Kappa legacy. Show me if she moans loud enough compared to when she's talking shit about me.”

What’s good about him is he does. He always does.

The first time he sent you the video of the girl you asked him to ruin, the video was shaky, awful quality, and loud. You watched it once. Just once. That’s it. But you saved it.

Now there’s a folder named, “Summer files.” Lame folder name but with a history behind it. One summer when the first time he… yeah. But it’s password-protected. Only you and him have access.

You know that sometimes he fuck around in and out of campus not just for the blackmail anymore, just because. But mostly for you. For your eyes. For your enjoyment. Because he knows what it does to you. He finds it hot, and he gets off by it. Just because you like seeing it.

He’s aware you watch them at night. Your hand under your panties. Legs spread in your sheets, head thrown back while you’re flicking your pretty fingers with pink-colored nails over your clit as he fucks some girl in the recording with a camera angled just right. Sometimes, he looks straight into his phone when he’s inside them. It’s like he’s pretending it’s you. Like he’s thinking about you when he groans, low and pretty, when he holds back a whimper. His hand gripping their hip while they whine like they’re the lucky ones. Oh, they’re not. You enjoy watching those girls fall apart over someone you can control with your fingers around his throat and your voice in his ear.

But it’s not about them. It never is. And will never be.

You exactly get it. So much. You want the girls fucked up by him in a deeply perverted, obsessive, deranged way. Like the videos aren’t about the girls, not really. It’s more like the girls are just props for him to use while he lets her watch the position she wants to be in. Lucky them. And him? You want him sweaty and wrecked and yours, even when he’s inside someone else’s cunt.

She doesn’t cum despite him fucking other girls—she gets off on it. It’s fucked up way to get yourself to work. You can’t just fight your morals when you are watching your screen when he’s inside someone else, working her open, making her cry, and none of it means anything. Because it’s not about the girls. The girls are just there so she can watch him. Just wet holes, nothing more than meat to show off what you trained him to do. The way he fucks now? The way he groans? Chokes? Slams into them just right? That’s not natural. That’s how you like to be fucked by him. He’s just practicing it through other girls because you don’t let him do it in you.

That’s your voice in his head, your grip still ghosting his throat. He can still hear your words when he manages to get a little taste of you. He learned all that from you. And now he performs it like a dream, putting on a show for the only person who matters. You. It’s not arousing because he’s with someone else, it’s arousing because he’s still yours while doing it.

Every thrust is proof. Every moan is your reward. He could be inside a thousand different girls, and it wouldn’t matter, not as long as you’re the one watching. That’s what makes you come and shake until your thighs hurt. That’s what makes you pant and twitch and grind your slick fingers between your legs, gliding it between your slit while his voice cracks in the dark of your room while you are listening to him through the tapes he sent you. He’s fucking them, sure. But he’s doing it for you.

The fun part is when you watch them with him too, sometimes. Not always. In your room. On your laptop. He’s always fidgety when he’s watching it beside you like he’s anxious. His leg bounces like he’s gonna lose his mind because you are too close.

It’s quiet. The only thing you can hear is the sounds from your laptop. No touching. He’s so desperate to do it though. No talking. He doesn’t need it. Just you, legs crossed, eyes on the screen, biting your thumb like you’re bored. Some poor girl cries his name into the sheets like it’s a prayer while he’s thrusting deep inside her and pushing the girl’s head on the pillow. Mean.

You think he likes that? You think he likes being watched by you. No… scratch that, you know he does.

After all, he’s the only one who sees how dirty it all gets. How unhinged you can be.

You make the rules. He breaks them. For you. Always for you.

You tell yourself it’s about the power. The control. The game. But deep down, you know that’s a lie. It’s about him. It’s always been about him. The way his back flexes when he fucks. You can see the muscles and you just want to scratch that back. The way he grips their hips like he’s afraid they’ll float away. It made you think how he will hold your hips. Will he make it bruised so you will remember it? Will he hold it tight as he slams his cock deep into you so you won’t move around and he can fuck you the way he likes? The sweat on his neck, you want to lick that. The flush on his chest. The way his jaw clenches and his voice catches when he’s close. You know when he’s really close, when he’s orgasming for real. No fake grunts, not performance, but real, guttural, cracked-open moans that only you know how to read. You don’t even need sound anymore. You can see it all in his face.

You’ve watched the tapes. All of them. You don’t miss a video. It’s like when he put another video in the shared folder? You will quickly get notified. You have favorites that you watch more than once. (One of your favorite is when he fuck one girl from your sorority and he have the nerve to fuck her in your sheet) Some so many times you’ve memorized the order of his thrusts. And it’s not to study them. Not anymore. You study him. You know every vein on his cock, it’s disgusting the way you zoom it when you are watching the video. You know every freckle on his shoulders, every twitch of his fingers when he’s holding back. Every time he glances into the lens, you know exactly who he’s thinking about. It’s not her. It’s you.

He doesn’t touch the girls the way he touches you. They don’t get that treatment from him. But you do. You can tell when he’s faking it. When he’s fucking just because he’s trying to finish what she said to him, hips moving just enough to pass, eyes flat, mind somewhere else. The way he looks more on the camera. And you know exactly where that somewhere else is because that’s when you’ve been texting him. (He always message you when he’s going to start recording in his phone. You both don’t video call, no. He just records on his phone while you send them) During. Sometimes just one word at a time: slower. say her name. touch her throat. good boy. No emojis. No punctuation. You know he can see the messages in his notifications even though the sounds are silent. Just on vibrate. And he does it. Of course he does. Because he knows you’re watching.

When he nods, just barely, just enough to let you know he got the message although you don’t see it. You squeeze your thighs together and whimper without sound because you can only imagine what’s he’s doing with the girl. After all, he will only show the tapes after he fucked them.

The girls don’t matter. They never did. Why would they even matter to you? They’re faceless, replaceable , nothing but background noise to frame the real subject. He’s the center. The reason. Your brother. Your masterpiece.

Sometimes you come before he does when both of you watches it together. Bite the inside of your wrist just to stay quiet, panting into your sheets while he’s still pounding into someone else in the background of your laptop like it means something. And still, you keep watching. You like it too much. You don’t look away. You can’t. Just. Can’t. You don’t come for her. You don’t even come for you. You come for him. For the way his rhythm falls apart when he’s close. For the way he bites his lip like he’s trying to hold your name back. For the fantasy you’ve fed yourself so many times it feels like truth—that he’s not really fucking her at all. He’s fucking you, just through someone else’s body, just until you finally let him have the real thing.

You know he wants it. He yearns of it. Its’s too obvious anyway. You see it in how eager he is to please. To perform. Sometimes you just want to tease him about starting an OF because he basically has the talent for it. To be good for you. He thinks you’re the camera. But no. You’re the mirror. He’s always been looking into you.

And god, you love it. You love being the reason. The center of him being crazy. The god behind the curtain, legs sticky, heart steady, watching your perfect boy ruin someone else just to make you feel something. You’re not the audience. You’re the director. The producer. The pervert in the front row, getting off behind the curtain like it’s a private showing just for you. And you. do get off every time.

And the worst part? You don’t even feel guilty.

You feel alive.

And sometimes, only sometimes, you reward him.

Like the night he got that footage of the girl you couldn’t stand. You loved that one. He did a good job. She ended up whining and babbling through her orgasm like a dumb little puppy in his tape. You let him stay over that night. Pulled him into your bed. You didn’t say thank you, didn’t kiss him. You just tugged his shorts down and stroked his dick off while still watching the screen with you.

It’s filthy. Your hand is slick with his pre cum. So wet like a girl. Your eyes never leave the video. The girl crying. Him pounding her cunt from the back. You? Silent while rewarding him for a job well done.

You didn’t even look at his face until he came. You just run and circled your thumb on the slit of his tip while squeezing his cock. And him? He bit your neck a little too hard afterward. He even left a hickey, but you let him. He earned it.

He thinks he’s the corrupted one.

Thinks he’s the problem.

Thinks he’s dark for wanting you to see all of it. For wanting you to see him.

But that’s the joke.

He was already fucked before you. He’s already messed up. You know it. He knows it. You just made him honest about it. You made him embrace it around you. Taught him how to weaponize it. How to use it to his advantage. Put a mirror to his want and made him stare until he broke skin. It’s not sex. Not really. Just control. Yours. Always.

And maybe that’s why he comes to you that night like he’s got something to offer. (He always has, sometimes you just made hints feel he doesn’t) Like he’s got chips to play with when he’s already flat on the floor, bleeding out beneath your heel like a bunny that has been abandoned by his owner.

He leans in, smelling like cigarette smoke and some girl’s perfume he never even touched. Voice low like a secret, cigarette hanging loose between his fingers like a hedge in a fucking movie, and says, “About that little wager of yours?”

There’s that twitch in your smile. The one you trained to look polite. Your eyes twinkled. Curiosity sparkling. But you know. You fucking know, he’s already lost. He just doesn’t know it yet. He never does. And that’s the part that turns you on the most. Both of you like to play.

“Count me in,” he adds, with that cocky smirk that means he thinks he’s a game changer in this. Thinks he’s playing the game like you didn’t design the fucking whole thing, put the puzzles together, and made it possible to happen.

You don’t answer right away. You just hum while you trace the neck of your wineglass in a slow and lazy motion. You tilt your head like you’re thinking of continuing it or not. He stares. He always stares. You were made to be looked at.

“What are the terms?” he finally asks, and god, even his voice sounds fucked. Like it’s straining to stay casual. Like he’s grounding himself. Like it’s already halfway into a whimper. He always seems trying to hold back a moan when he’s around you is he not?

“If I win…” you start, and then you leave it. Just hang it in the air like a mystery. Heavy. Sticky. Sweet. Enough to tease him and you can already see it on his expression. The way his mouth parts a little and nods.

Then you finish it, “Then that hot little car of yours is mine.” Yeah, you know he loves it so much because it comes from his father.

He goes still, thinking, thinking, and thinking while jaw twitching, tongue pushing against his inside cheek like he’s trying to process it. Tries to act cool. Fails. You see it all, the flicker in his eyes, the pulse in his neck. You can see him getting worked up. Angry? Irritated.

“And if I win?” he manages, voices rough and deep.

You lean in like you’re gonna kiss him. Face inches close to him. But you don’t. You just stay close to him. You just breathe across his cheek and lean more so you can whisper in his ear, “I’ll give you what you’ve been obsessing about ever since our parents got married.”

And that? That’s the piece of chess you don’t say with a smirk. You say it flat. Mean. Nonchalant. Almost mocking. Like truth.

He stiffens, and you swear you can feel the temperature shift. Maybe he’s just turning you on.

“Be more specific,” he says, but it sounds like begging. He always begs.

You laugh. “In English…”

“I’ll fuck your brains out,” you smirk at him, almost testing him if he will quickly agree. He always does. Always. You feel like you wouldn’t be persuading him that much.

Silence. But not the empty kind. The kind that crackles. The kind that begs.

He doesn’t look at you. Not directly. Just somewhere near your mouth. “What makes you think I’d go for that bet?”

You shrug like it’s boring. Like it’s easy. He always agrees to the bet. Especially that price? She knows how badly he wants to fuck her in her pussy, deep, and her clenching him around his cock. She knows he dreamt of it.

“That’s a 1956 Jaguar roadster.” He huffs a laugh, but it sounds hollow. Like he’s already halfway to yes.

You tilt your head and say it. “Because I’m the only person you can’t have, and it kills you.”

That gets him. Gets him good. You watch it happen, his throat working around nothing, his fingers twitching, the way his knees shift like he wants to crawl under the table and beg. He masks it with a defensive “No way.”

But you lean back. Spread your legs just slightly beneath the table like it’s a reflex. Like you want him to look. Like you want him to lose. You even lift your skirt a little so he can see enough of your see-through panties that are hugging your cunt, which made your clit can’t breathe.

“You can put it anywhere.”

And that’s the fucking break. That’s when he snaps.

His mouth parts, eyes going blown black, and he breathes the words out like a fucking prayer.

“You got yourself a bet, baby.”

And just like that, you win again.

You don’t feel guilty. Not when you’re the one he wants. Not when every girl he touches is just a poor man’s version of you, so easy, so grateful, so forgettable. You don’t feel guilty because he’s the one sending you videos at 2 a.m., saying her name with your face in his head. Because he comes back to you every time, he always does even when he’s pretending not to. Even when he’s fucking someone else, he’s thinking of you.

You don’t feel guilty because you’re not the sidepiece, you’re the goddamn center of him. And you know it. You count on it. Let them call it twisted. Let them say it’s cruel. You don’t care. You’ve never cared. Because what you have is bigger than guilt, bigger than shame, it’s power, and it’s permanent. He’ll never shake you. Not when every orgasm is a confession. Not when every breakdown has your name buried in it. You don’t feel guilty. You just get horny and turned on.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[daughterofsarenrae]

one of these days i will actually read rhythm of war, which i have owned since release day, except that i really want to reread the series up until then before i read it. except that is. 3,565 pages. and then RoW is an addition 1219

[sunsburns]

dodge mason snapping his belt. that’s all i have to say.

SMUT 17+ ; slight bondage; implied smut

i like to think it would be a way to tease you, where the sound of the snap is enough to have you excited, laying on your shared bed, leaning back on your elbows as you watch him standing by the edge of the bed.

he's putting on a show for you, from the moment he started to unbutton his top, leaving it half open for you to have a good look at his chest. then he went to unbuckle his belt, pulling them out with one swift movement and snapping them in front of you.

you can feel yourself smiling, from how he holds the belt with his teeth and starts pulling his shirt off, then pushing his pants down. his slow, taunting, movements while he keeps looking at you, his eyes never moving from yours.

then he starts to crawl onto the bed, smirking at you when you reach to take the leather belt from between his teeth with raised brows. "you gonna tie me up, cowboy?"

he chuckles, "might have to."

before he leans down to kiss you, he tries to take his hat off but you stop him. "keep it on for tonight. i think i'll be fun."

[russsiangirl]

What fandoms will I write for?

i will not write smut for any fandom because i am a minor. i will write fluff, angst, and any sort of thing but no smut.

some of the things on the list are things i still have to watch so i will hold off on writing things for them until i watch it!

my current fandoms i will write for! ( subject to change )

shameless ( 2011 - 2021 ) - i will write for any of the gallagher siblings besides liam due to him being a child. i will also write for the milkovich siblings & kev + v!

the umbrella academy ( 2019 - 2024 ) - i will write for any of the umbrellas and sparrows! ( this includes lila! )

call of duty mw & mw2 ( the remakes ) - i will write for all of 141 ( alex & farah included ) and graves!

panic ( 2021 ) - i will write for dodge mason, ray hall, heather nill and bishop!

percy jackson and the olympians ( 2023 - present ) - i will write for all of the campers!

the hunger games ( 2012 - 2023 ) - i'll write for all of the contestants or try my best to, i'll write for young snow, sejanus and lucy gray for tbosas

the maze runner ( 2014 - 2018 ) - i'll write for all the gladers + aris!

challengers ( 2024 ) - i'll write for art donaldson and possibly patrick & tashi

outer banks ( 2020 - present ) - i'll write for all the pogues + sarah and rafe

PSA! - i can also write for the book versions of these! just please specify in my asks so i don't get confused! i'll also try my best to qrite consistently and frequently

[akakumoeteru]

"I want to take someone back to Cloud Recesses... Take him back, hide him away." "But he is not willing."