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bellatrixscurls · 5 days ago

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LEONA-HAWTHORNE’S FICMAS

december 15th. mattheo riddle — slow down!

mattheo riddle x fem reader

summary ; mattheo’s got a crush that’s hard to ignore, but every time he tries to get close, you disappear. good thing he’s got a few ways to catch you when you run. words ; 3.9k warnings ; smut, unprotected p in v, fingering, creampie, spanking, mentions of blood

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The corridor was unnervingly quiet, save for the the faint scrape of shoes against stone. You hugged your books tightly to your chest, trying to make yourself invisible as you hurried toward the library. The cold December air seeping through the castle walls bit at your skin, but it wasn’t nearly as alarming as the warmth you suddenly felt—someone approaching from behind.

“Hi.”

His voice slid into your awareness before you even heard the sound of his footsteps, sending your heart skittering like a startled bird. Turning your head slightly, you caught sight of him—dark curls falling into his eyes, his signature Slytherin tie loosened at his throat, and that grin. The grin that made your chest feel too tight and your thoughts scatter like spilled ink.

Your first instinct, as always, was to flee.

Before he could say more, you ducked your head and pivoted on your heel, muttering something about being late to the library.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” His hand was warm and firm around your wrist, stopping you mid-flight. He turned you gently to face him, his dark eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your cheeks burn. “Would you please stop running away from me? It’s worrying me, you know. The way you look like you’ve seen a ghost every time I’m around.”

You didn’t dare meet his eyes. Not yet. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the traitorous flush that gave away just how much he affected you. “I’m not running,” you mumbled, though the evidence was damning.

“Oh, come on.” He laughed, soft and incredulous. “You bolt every time I so much as look at you. Do you have any idea how hard it is to catch up with you? You’re like—like a mouse slipping through cracks.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out at first. He tilted his head, the faintest frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t bite, you know. Not unless you ask.”

His teasing tone made your stomach flip. “I’m sorry,” you muttered, dropping your gaze to the floor.

“Don’t be,” he said softly, his grip on your wrist loosening but not letting go entirely. “I just—look, you know I’m not going to hurt you, right?”

“I-I know,” you stammered, and it was true. He wasn’t threatening to you, not even close. But that didn’t make the rapid thudding of your heart any less overwhelming.

His brow furrowed slightly. “Then what is it?” His voice dropped, quieter now, as if he was trying not to spook you. “Am I too much? Too… loud? Intense? I can tone it down if that’s what you need.”

The earnestness in his voice nearly unraveled you. You wanted to tell him that it wasn’t his fault—that it was you, and your inability to handle the way he seemed to draw everyone’s attention with effortless charm. The way he smiled like he knew every secret in the world. The way his presence made you feel like you were standing too close to the sun.

“I—” You bit your lip, scrambling for an excuse, any excuse, but your brain seemed to be short-circuiting under his gaze. “I’m just...not used to people like you.”

“People like me?” His eyebrows lifted, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a half-smile. “What does that mean?”

“You know.” You waved your free hand vaguely, avoiding his eyes again. “Confident. Charming.”

“Ah.” He let out a low chuckle, the sound warm and rich, wrapping around you like a blanket. “So, what? You’re allergic to confidence?”

“No! I just—” You huffed, flustered, and Mattheo’s grin widened.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered, you know that?” he said, and your stomach flipped violently.

“I am not,” you mumbled, heat rising to your cheeks.

“You are,” he insisted, his tone teasing but gentle. “And I’m not saying that to make you run away again, by the way. I’d really prefer it if you didn’t.”

You glanced up at him then, your heart doing somersaults at the soft, hopeful look in his eyes. And for a moment, you thought maybe you could do this—stay, talk to him, let yourself believe that someone like Mattheo Riddle could actually like someone like you.

But instead, you mumbled something incoherent and, in a sudden burst of courage—or cowardice—twisted out of his grasp and darted down the hallway.

“Wait—! Oh, come on! Slow down!” His exasperated laugh echoed behind you, followed by his voice, playful but resigned. “You’re killing me, you know that?”

Oh, but you weren’t getting away that easily.

Because by some twist of fate—or Mattheo’s uncanny ability to be everywhere you didn’t want him to be—you found yourself crossing paths with him again that very afternoon. And this time, there was no escaping.

The hospital wing was quiet, the kind of quiet that wrapped itself around you like a blanket, broken only by the soft clink of glass vials as you worked. You were perched at Madame Pomfrey’s desk, carefully restocking rows of remedies, when the heavy wooden door creaked open.

You didn’t look up at first, assuming it was Madame Pomfrey returning from her rounds. But then you heard the familiar drawl.

“Madame Pomfrey, I—oh.”

Your hand froze mid-reach for a jar of bruise balm. Your stomach plummeted. You knew that voice.

You froze, your hand stilling mid-reach for a jar of essence of murtlap. Slowly, as though moving too quickly might summon some greater disaster, you turned your head toward the door.

There he was.

Mattheo Riddle, leaning casually against the doorframe, one arm tucked against his side, the other pressed lightly to his jaw where a streak of blood stood out against his pale skin. His shirt was untucked, his tie gone, and his dark curls were just messy enough to make him look infuriatingly perfect.

Your heart started to pound, the air in your lungs thinning to a whisper. “You,” you said before you could stop yourself, the word barely louder than a squeak.

Mattheo grinned, even as he winced slightly, straightening from the doorframe. “Me,” he echoed.

You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the desk as if it might keep you grounded. “What... what happened?”

“I fell,” he said simply, though the smirk on his lips made it impossible to believe him.

“You fell,” you repeated flatly, crossing your arms.

He nodded solemnly, though there was nothing solemn about the way his eyes flicked over you, taking in the rolled-up sleeves of your uniform and the faint smudge of ink on your wrist from earlier. “Tragic, I know. But lucky me—I’ve landed in the most capable hands.”

Your cheeks burned, and you immediately dropped your gaze, fussing with the nearest jar of ointment to avoid his eyes. “Madame Pomfrey isn’t here,” you mumbled. “I’m just helping... for now.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” he said, moving toward one of the hospital beds. “I think I like the idea of you taking care of me.”

Your fingers fumbled, nearly knocking over a bottle of murtlap essence. “Sit,” you said quickly, pointing to the bed without looking at him. “You need to sit so I can... um... look at that.”

He chuckled softly but complied, settling onto the edge of the bed. “As you wish.”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself as you grabbed a cloth and some antiseptic. But when you turned back, he wasn’t sitting anymore. He was standing again, closer now—too close, that lazy grin still firmly in place.

Your breath caught. “You—what are you doing?”

“Stretching my legs,” he said easily, his voice low and warm.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” you said, your voice trembling slightly as you tried to sound firm. “You’re injured—”

“It’s nothing,” he said, his grin widening as he leaned against the desk, his dark eyes fixed on you. “I’m not that fragile, you know.”

“But—”

“Do I make you nervous?” he interrupted, tilting his head slightly, his curls falling into his eyes.

You immediately shook your head, even though you could feel the heat crawling up your neck. “N-no. I mean—why would you think that?”

“Because you’re practically shaking,” he said, his tone softer now, though no less teasing. “And because you keep looking anywhere but at me.”

Your eyes flicked up to his for a fraction of a second before dropping back down to the floor. “I’m not... I mean, I just—”

“You’re adorable,” he said, and the warmth in his voice made your pulse race.

You froze, your fingers tightening on the cloth in your hands. “I should clean your cut,” you mumbled, stepping back toward him.

But before you could reach him, he moved again, his hands finding the edge of the table on either side of you, caging you in.

“Mattheo—”

“I’m not going anywhere this time,” he said softly, his voice barely more than a murmur. His dark eyes held yours, the intensity in them stealing the words right out of your throat. “So stop running.”

His face was so close now, the warmth of his breath ghosting across your cheek, making your skin tingle. You could see the individual lashes framing those mesmerizing eyes, the slight curve of his lips, the way his teeth nipped gently at his lower lip...

"Come on," you muttered, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. You lifted the antiseptic in your hand. "Just... please let me help you."

It sounded weak, pathetic even, but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

For a long moment, he simply looked at you, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he stepped back, giving you space to breathe again.

"You're right," he said, his voice a little rougher than usual. "Thank you."

He sat back down on the bed, his posture a bit less casual now, more tense. He looked up at you through his lashes, his gaze softer than before.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to overwhelm you. I just..." He paused, seeming to struggle for the right words. "I like you, Y/N. A lot. And sometimes I forget myself around you."

You blinked rapidly, processing his words. "You... really?" you asked softly, hardly daring to believe it. Slowly, hesitantly, you took a step closer, drawn to him despite your nerves.

"Yes, really," he confirmed, his voice low and sincere. As you drew near, he reached out, his large hands coming to rest on your hips. In one smooth motion, he pulled you down onto his lap, his strong arms wrapping around your waist to steady you.

You gasped, your hands flying up to press against his chest. You could feel the firm muscles beneath his shirt, the rapid thud of his heartbeat. Your own heart raced in response, your cheeks flaming with heat.

He smiled softly, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles on your hip bones as he held you close. "There," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Isn't this better?"

You squirmed slightly in his lap, hyper-aware of every point where your bodies touched. "I... I don't know if this is a good idea," you whispered, even as your traitorous body melted into his embrace. Your hands slid up his chest to loop around his neck, fingers tangling in the soft curls at his nape.

He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating through you. "Why not? We're alone, aren't we?" His hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your blouse. "No one has to know..."

He leaned in, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down the column of your throat. "Let me take care of you," he breathed against your skin, his other hand sliding down to palm your ass. "I promise I'll make it feel good."

You whimpered softly as his lips and tongue worked magic on your sensitive skin, your head lolling back to give him better access. But as he kissed lower, you suddenly felt something wet and sticky on your throat–his cut.

"Wait," you gasped, pulling back slightly. You brought a hand up to your neck, your fingers coming away streaked with blood. "You're still bleeding, Mattheo. We should clean that first before... before anything else happens."

He paused, looking up at you with lust-darkened eyes. A slow, amused grin spread across his face. "You think I give a fuck about that right now?" he muttered, pulling you flush against him again. "Don't worry about that."

His hand fisted in your hair, tugging your head back as he attacked your throat with renewed fervor, licking and sucking at the bloodied skin.

"M-Mattheo," you whimpered, your nails digging into his shoulders. "We shouldn't... not here..."

Even as you protested weakly, your hips started to move of their own accord, grinding down against the growing hardness you could feel pressing against your thighs. The friction sent sparks of pleasure shooting through you, making your head spin.

He groaned into your neck, the vibrations rumbling through his chest and into yours. His hands tightened on your hips, encouraging your movements as he rocked up against you.

"Oh, fuck. You're not as innocent as you pretend to be, huh?" he noted, his voice rough with desire.

In one fluid motion, he lifted you off his lap, rising from the bed as you stumbled back. His hands roamed possessively, sliding from your waist to the curve of your lower back before trailing up to cup the soft swell of your tits. His touch was rough and insistent, squeezing and kneading as if he couldn't get enough of you.

Before you could catch your breath, he turned you around, his firm grip guiding you into place. His hand pressed against the small of your back, a silent command that sent heat pooling in your belly as you bent forward, your chest and palms flattening against the bed.

You felt the air shift around you, cool and heady against your heated skin, as Mattheo's fingers toyed with the hem of your skirt. He dragged it up slowly, deliberately, his movements measured, as though savoring every inch of you revealed to him.

"Running from me, again and again," he muttered, his voice dark and edged with amusement. "And now look at you. Right where I’ve always wanted you."

Your breath caught, shame and desire tangling in your chest. You couldn’t bring yourself to respond—not when his hands curled under the waistband of your panties, dragging them down the curve of your thighs in one slow, tantalizing motion.

"Mattheo," you whispered, your voice trembling, barely audible above the pounding of your own heart.

His low laugh sent shivers through you. "Finally saying my name. Do you know how long I’ve waited to hear that? And not just in your shy little apologies."

Your knees nearly buckled as his fingers teased the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, tracing lazy circles closer and closer to where you ached for him. He let the silence hang, heavy and charged, before looping his arm around your front.

"Cute,” he murmured. "You’ve spent weeks avoiding me, playing coy. But I think you’ve wanted this just as much as I have. Haven’t you?"

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t think—only gasp as his fingers found your clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that sent sparks skittering up your spine.

"Answer me," he demanded, his tone soft but unyielding. "I want to hear you say it."

Your nails dug into the bedspread, and you shook your head, overwhelmed by the intensity of his touch. "I-I don’t…"

"Don’t what?" His fingers curled around the back of your neck, squeezing lightly. "Don’t want me? Don’t need this? Say it, sweetheart, because your body’s telling me a very different story."

You whimpered, the heat pooling between your thighs making it impossible to deny him—or yourself. "I…I want you," you finally choked out, your voice so quiet you weren’t sure he’d heard.

But he did.

"Good girl," he praised, the words dripping with satisfaction. His movements quickened, drawing tight, delicious circles that had your legs trembling. "See? That wasn’t so hard, was it? All you had to do was stop running."

A soft gasp escaped your lips as his hand slid down from your neck, tracing the curve of your hip before gripping your ass firmly. His other hand left your front, joining its twin to knead and grope the plush flesh, his thumbs digging in with a possessive hunger that made heat bloom low in your belly again.

“You’re perfect here,” he mused, his voice a deep hum as he spread your cheeks apart, his touch maddeningly deliberate. “Bent over for me like this. Made for me, aren’t you?”

You bit your lip, trying to suppress the whimper that threatened to escape, but Mattheo didn’t miss it. He laughed softly, the sound dripping with smug satisfaction.

“Don’t hold back now,” he coaxed, his hands trailing up and down the back of your thighs, lingering just long enough to tease but not satisfy. “I want to hear every little sound you make for me.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could form a word, his palm landed on your ass with a sharp smack—not hard enough to hurt too much, but enough to send a jolt of heat straight through you.

“Mattheo!”

“There it is,” he purred, his hands smoothing over the spot he’d just struck, his touch soothing and warm. “You sound so fucking sweet when you say my name like that.”

Before you could respond, you felt the hard press of his length against you, separated only by the fabric of his trousers. He rolled his hips, letting you feel the full weight of him, and your knees buckled slightly at the realization of just how much he wanted you.

“You feel that?” he murmured, his lips brushing the back of your neck as he reached down to unbuckle his belt. The soft clink of metal was almost drowned out by the pounding of your heart. “That’s what you do to me. Every time you run, every time you look at me with those shy little glances—you drive me fucking insane.”

The ruffling of fabric being lowered was too hard to ignore, and you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing back over your shoulder. The sight of him—breathing heavily, his cock thick and hard, standing proudly against the taut muscles of his stomach—sent a wave of heat washing over you.

“Eyes front,” he ordered, his voice rough with arousal. When you didn’t obey fast enough, his hand came down on your ass again, the sharp sting making you gasp. “Now.”

You did as he said, pressing your forehead into the bedspread as his hands roamed over you again, his touch both reverent and demanding. One hand slipped between your thighs, spreading you open, while the other gripped your hip, holding you steady.

“God, you’re so wet for me,” he groaned, his fingers sliding through your slick folds. He teased your entrance with the tip of one finger before pushing inside, curling it just enough to make you arch back against him.

“You like that?” he asked, his voice laced with a dark kind of affection as he added another finger, stretching you slowly. “I can feel how tight you are. So perfect. So ready for me.”

Your answer was a broken moan, your body moving instinctively against his hand.

“Shit,” he breathed, pulling his fingers out only to replace them with the blunt head of his cock, teasing your entrance with maddening slowness. “You’re gonna ruin me, you know that?”

The stretch of him entering you was almost too much, but the way he worked you—inch by agonizing inch, his hands gripping your hips to keep you still—sent a wave of pleasure through you that made your toes curl.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice a husky growl as he bottomed out, filling you completely. He stayed there for a moment, his breathing ragged, his hands running over the curve of your back and the swell of your ass. “You feel so fucking good, baby. So tight, so perfect. Tell me how it feels.”

“Good,” you managed, your voice barely more than a whisper. “So good.”

“Yeah?” He pulled back slowly, leaving only the tip of his cock inside you before snapping his hips forward again with a deep thrust, filling you completely. You gasped, your body jerking forward at the force, but he didn’t give you a moment to adjust. He set a slow, measured pace, his thrusts deep but deliberate, pulling out and pushing back into you with an almost agonizing slowness that made your heart race. “You like it when I fill you up like this? When I make you mine?”

Your only response was a strangled moan, your fingers clutching the sheets as he sped up his rhythm, each thrust driving you closer to the edge.

His hand left your hip, sliding down to your front to brush your clit with just the right amount of pressure. "God, you’re perfect," he muttered, his voice rough as he continued to slide in and out of you, each stroke a slow burn. "I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone like I want you right now."

The pressure inside you was building, slow and steady, like the tightening of a coil. You could feel every inch of him, each thrust dragging out the pleasure until it was almost unbearable. You clenched around him, urging him deeper, and he groaned in response, his grip tightening on your hips as he pushed you harder into the bed.

“You’re fucking incredible,” he breathed, his voice rough and full of need. His thrusts picked up, faster now, more urgent, but still controlled, as if he wanted to drag this out as long as possible. “You feel so fucking good, so warm and tight around me. Don’t hold back. I want to hear you.”

Your hands gripped the sheets, nails digging into the fabric as the pleasure mounted. He hit that sweet spot inside you with every thrust, driving you mad with the sensation, and you couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped your lips.

“Please…” you gasped, not sure if you were begging for more or for him to take you faster. It didn’t matter. You just needed him.

Mattheo smirked, his fingers still pressing against your clit, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. "You want it faster? You want me to make you come on my cock?"

You nodded, desperate for more. “Yes, please…”

“That’s what I thought,” he rasped, his thrusts quickening as he slammed into you with abandon. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, along with the low groans escaping both of you.

With one final, devastating thrust, you shattered, your release crashing over you like a tidal wave. Mattheo wasn’t far behind, his rhythm growing erratic as he buried himself deep inside you, groaning your name as he followed you over the edge.

For a moment, the world was nothing but the sound of your ragged breaths and the heat of his body against yours. Then, slowly, he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder.

“You’re not running from me again,” he murmured, his voice a quiet promise. “Not now. Not ever.”

ficmas taglist: @winnie1emon @ur-local-wizard @satosugu4-ever @ankoluvs @superstargirll @slytherin-princess-x @abeoavita @mattheoriddle101 @georgiastars13 @smoooore @mattheoriddles-sluttt @2dloveshp @mattysprincess @catching-fire-in-the-wind @revesephemeres @esmerai-artemis @clar2aa @iamaconfusedpan

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bellatrixscurls · 8 days ago

Note

Need more rough hate sex with Patrick and reader but very challengers coded like maybe she’s art girlfriend and can’t stand Patrick and Patrick hates her because he wants Art to himself but one day they’re at a party or somewhere, get into it and then fuck?? Maybe Art turns up to the party and is standing outside the door while Patrick’s fucking reader into the sink and whispering filth in her ears while her boyfriends outside saying could he fuck you like this, does he make you cum, like proper unhinged filth freaky shit choking, hair pulling, she could slap him, I want it ALL

Could lowkey see it being more parts because maybe Art then gets back at her and fucks the shit out of her and isn’t so submissive and she’s egging him on about Patrick because she wants to be fucked like that and he gives in? He’s acting like her talking about Patrick fucking her isn’t making Art harder and closer to cumming hehehe

SOMETHING BORROWED.

summary: Art’s your boyfriend and you’re his girl. Everyone knows that, and everyone knows Patrick is his best friend. The thing is: he hates you, and you can’t stand him either. It should have stayed that way, but there’s a party. The bathroom exists and you don’t know why you let it happen.

pairings: patrick zweig x afab!reader x art donaldson

warnings: 14.9k words. mature themes. dubious consent. unprotected p in v. creampie. oral sex. recording. voyeurism undertones. manipulation. gaslighting. cheating / infidelity. power imbalance / toxic dynamics. degradation kink / verbal humiliation. rough sex. breeding kink. overstimulation. alcohol use. read & consume responsibly.

note: hey, i really enjoyed writing this and i apologize for the slow writing especially with the requests and this is way back from may, but i hope the person who requested it is still around and will see this. <3 planning to release it last last week but got busy and sick. but here it is!

It's always been Art and Patrick.

It always has been and is always going to stay that way. Too young when they crossed each other’s paths. It got too close fast, as if something had just clicked inside. And ever since that meeting, nothing has changed because the bond is so strong. Growing up together since they’re barely teens. Maybe it’s around 12 or 13. They don't really care about the specifics and it doesn’t really matter not when they know they have each other’s backs regardless of their differences. People know Art is the quiet one. The perfectionist. The focus. The precise movements. Patrick is the opposite. The mess. The reckless swings. The egotistical maniac. Structure and chaos, but they still got paired for doubles, and they haven't changed partners ever since. Art was in control, posture perfect, and footwork clean. Patrick was reckless, grinning, never playing the same way twice. Together, they made sense- muscle and bone, strike and spark.

They roomed together and shared almost everything except their racquets: that’s too intimate to share. Both boys don’t really talk about feelings, not their stuff. But they know the technique, half-language insults, and language they only see when you live together for so long. Live together to the point he taught Art to jerk off and mutter about how he’s doing it all wrong before he talks him through it and they do it together. Art listened, of course; he came hard even, but it was something they never talked about after they did it. Every boundary crossed, every look that lasted too long. They weren’t dating, weren’t friends, something closer, something worse.

At fifteen, people already see them as a problem. Coaches hate them because they are intense. Hated how much they are in sync. Hated how dependent on each other. They can’t breathe right if the other isn’t on the court. They can’t hit the ball right without the other’s focus shining through the noise in the court. They fought like hell but never stayed mad where it mattered. It wasn’t romantic. No one else saw them like that. It was just them, just fire and ice. Just Patrick and Art.

But at some point, some moments, it nearly broke open. Something. Just something. Patrick shoved too hard, and Ary said his name too softly before someone muttered, “Jesus, just fuck already,” and neither of them flinched at that. But nothing happened, not really, because they needed each other too much. They just coexist. Patrick knew Art was always going to be a star. The biggest of them all. He knows that he’s going to self-destruct at some point. But they still keep playing. They pretend nothing would come between them because that’s how things work.

And then after the blink of an eye, there’s college. It’s still good. The first months of college were better than they should’ve been. Got closer. Still in rhythm, roommates, doubles partners, orbiting each other like nothing had shifted. Same pattern, different zip code, free- until it started to change. Of course, it will. Art didn’t just slip away instantly. No. It happened slowly. Quiet. Small lies at first. Leaving too quickly after a practice. Always have a reason like “group project” or “just tired.” Harmless lies for some people, except that Patrick knew Art’s schedule down to the hour. They share a calendar that syncs their schedules, but Art’s lies kept coming- not dramatic, just consistent, which somehow made it worse.

Then one night when Patrick was strolling around the campus, he saw something. It’s already late. The campus is already emptied out besides the people walking back wobbly with their drunkass selves and some are sneaking out of their dorms. Thank god there’s no curfew in their building. He feels the coldness on his skin as he walks near the court. The buildings were already dark except for this one court that was still shining brightly. He slipped inside because it was supposed to be closed by now. He’s walking silently until he sees you.

You were kneeling in the dark, and Art was leaning back to the door while his hand was in your hair. His mouth parted like he just won another match. Patrick can see the way he’s thrusting in your mouth. The way his hips are rolling shallow while you work him inside your mouth slowly and wet as if you like it. Art is not loud. Probably knows the risk of being caught in public. So he just whispered your name, saying please, soft like a prayer, fingers flexing like he was trying not to fuck your mouth too fast.

Patrick stood frozen, breath locked in his chest as you pulled off with a slick sound, licked the tip, then sank back down like you wanted to be caught. This is inappropriate to watch your best friend getting ahead. Sure, he already knows what Art’s cock looks like. But it’s not like he wants to watch his sex life in front of him. But he stayed too long, long enough for it to be a mistake, then left without a sound, carrying the image like something he wasn’t supposed to keep.

Patrick didn’t bring it up, waiting for Art to say something. Art didn’t. So Patrick snapped. It itched something inside of him, so it just happened after a doubles win, adrenaline buzzing when Art said he was heading out early. Patrick didn’t look at him, just said flatly, “Are you seeing someone?” Art blinked and looked at Patrick too quickly, so he asked, “What?” Patrick dropped his towel, jaw tight. “You’ve been flaking for weeks. Are you seeing someone or not?”

Art gave the weakest shrug Patrick had ever seen. “Yeah. I guess.” Patrick’s jaw twitched. “You guess? Are you going to tell me her name?” Art said your name, and that was it. The girl on her knees has a name now on his mind. Suddenly, the ghost in Art’s schedule had a face, a mouth, and a memory Patrick couldn’t scrub out since that night. Still, he didn’t say anything about the court, about the lie. He just let it sit tight.

A week later, Art brought you to the dorm. Patrick was at his desk, halfway through typing something he didn’t care about, when Art strolled in like there hadn’t been tension for weeks. “You’ve met Patrick, right? ”Art asked. You smiled softly, practiced, like nothing was wrong. Patrick didn’t smile back. “Not really,” he said, flatly. “Saw him in the courts though.” That was it, no scene, no confrontation.

But when Art turned to drop his bag, Patrick looked at you, and you looked right back, hoping for something, but no smile, just a flicker of recognition. It wasn’t kindness. Just fire and ice, the start of something neither of you could walk back from. After that, it didn’t get easier. You kept showing up, not because Patrick wanted you there. He didn’t, but because Art did, always texting, pulling you closer like he couldn’t regulate without you. He missed your perfume on his pillows, your warmth in his sheets, and your shape in his sweatshirt.

Sometimes it was just a sleepy selfie with the caption “Wish you were here,” and you came every time. Art started bringing you to practice, like you were some part of a ritual, sitting in the bleachers remembering everything Art forgot. Patrick noticed, and he had these looks. They were loud and cold. Sometimes you will just catch him eyeing you like he’s playing percentage tennis, waiting for you to fuck up. His looks are like some timer that counts the minutes you have until you leave.

You’ve been telling yourself it wasn’t personal. Art warned you that Patrick didn’t trust easily and didn’t click with people unless they proved themselves. So you tried, letting him ignore you at diners when Art dragged you both out, sitting across from him pretending his silence didn’t scrape your skin. You let him order his 10 p.m. pancakes without judgment and tried small talk about matches or the weather or whatever bullshit conversation that feels so awkward. His answers are always dismissive and laced with taunt or boredom. There was this one time you offered him the food you’re eating and ike an asshole person he is: he just looked at you like he’s disgusted at the idea of sharing before saying that he doesn't like getting food with people he doesn't know.

And after that? You didn’t try at all. But you are stubborn, so another time, you brought him coffee, not as a peace offering, just as an act of kindness. You set it on the desk, sealed, untouched. He didn’t look up. “What’d you do?” he asks, already assuming you are just here to ask something about Art. “What?” You just said before you look at him with that face you do when you're confused. “Don’t drink shit I didn’t pour myself.” Oh, so he's going the mean route again. “It’s sealed,” bored and assured even though you are so tired of it. “Then I don’t need it.” You should have just put poison in his drink when you knew he'd be like that.

What's annoying is he's always there. Always in the shadow of Art. Sometimes you will just catch him not wearing any shirt in the dorm and looking fresh out of the shower while he's pouring cereal and never saying good morning to you. It was worse because you always woke up first, Art’s arm heavy around your waist, warm against your back. You’d slide out quietly, hoping not to break the spell.

And every goddamn time, Patrick was already at the desk. Always. There. Jaw clenched, pretending not to notice you in Art’s t-shirt. You told yourself to let it go, to remember Patrick came first, that they had years, not weeks. You just have that thought in your mind that no matter how warm Art was, Patrick would always come before you. But it wore on you, the way Patrick didn’t just dislike you- he made you feel stupid for trying. And you hated that most.

And you didn't even mean to stay over that one night. You just kind of did. Something happened, and the something is Art acting so cute, so you just have to stay because he's already Art pulling a clean, warm shirt from his drawer for you to wear, looking at you like he missed you, like you hadn’t seen each other hours ago.

He just has this way of saying “stay” that will make your heart melt. You keep telling yourself it's okay because it's just Patrick. Just him. Lucky, right? If his roommate were another person, it would've been harder. You can even ignore him and not say hi or look. But this time he's already in his bed which is new because you are not used to seeing him already tucked in, and his limbs are hiding under the blanket. The room is okay and nothing has changed. You've been here many times.

Tonight it's just darker since Patrick went to bed earlier than usual and has that college-boy smell of detergent and sweat. There are twin beds, not side by side but close enough not to have any privacy. You sat on Art’s bed, pretending you belonged, telling yourself you’ll be just sleeping over. But it was after all lights are out that Art started touching you, his hand on your hip, sliding lower under the hem of his shirt on you.

His breath brushed your neck, palm flattening against your stomach, before slipping between your thighs. “Art,” you whispered, thin, hesitant, and careful. “He’s right there.” Your breath hitches when Art doesn’t stop. “And sleeping,” he murmured, pressing his body closer to you, “he’s not going to wake up, swear,” And you don't even know what that is supposed to mean right now especially his hand is already… going places. You really tried, brushing Art’s wrist like you could stop it before it got worse.

You sigh, insisting to him just to wait while he kisses your shoulder, and his hand cups your chest as he lines up behind you. “I don’t want to wait. I miss you,” he whispers. He’s quiet, but there’s seriousness and determination in his voice like the decision has been made. “Just be quiet.” Your thighs tensed, your lip caught between your teeth, and when he pushed in slowly, deep- you let him. You tried to keep your breathing shallow, tried to stay still, but it was too much, the way he rocked into you like you were something he earned. Your hand covered your mouth, head pressed into the mattress, just a few feet away from Patrick.

But he didn't react. Just staying still like a statue. He's not coughing. He's not moving around or rolling over. But you feel him. His presence. You feel his silence. You feel he's awake because it's your senses telling you that he's just pretending he's asleep while hearing every quiet sound of your slickness, every breath that you're holding back, but it slipped when Art found that deep, slow rhythm. You wondered if he heard the creak of the mattress under your hips, if he knew how wet you were, how shameless you’d gone for Art’s praise. When Art muttered, “Fuck, baby, you feel so good,” you didn’t hush him. You just took it slow, full thrusts dragging inside of you, his grip iron on your waist. Across the room, Patrick stayed silent, but you felt the heat of his attention even in the dark.

In the morning, you smiled at Patrick and said good morning like you hadn’t let his best friend fuck you while he pretended not to exist. And Patrick looked at you like he already had plans to make you regret it. After that, it got worse. Patrick didn’t start fights in front of Art or roll his eyes when there’s other people. He waited until Art left the room every time. One minute you’d be curled into Art’s side, and the next you’d feel it, that shift, that heavy quiet. Patrick would glance at you, scrolling on his phone, before dropping, “So you actually watch his matches now, or just the ones he wins?”

It was constant, the small cuts. The annoying one. That makes you want to punch him in the face, one. Late-night takeout when Patrick muttered, “Girls who can’t finish fries are more likely to cheat.” You stared, “What?” and he bit into his sandwich like he hadn’t said it on purpose. You tried to get ahead of it, asking about his matches and joking about his shoes. He shut it down every time. “Didn’t know I needed commentary from a cheerleader,” he’d say. Once, when you teased him for being late, he shot back, “Careful. You sound like someone who thinks she’s his coach and his girlfriend.”

The worst were the subtle ones. Passing you in the hall, muttering, “She reads now? God, he’s making a person out of you.” And Art kept smiling, kept pulling you closer, kept asking Patrick what he thought of you, and Patrick would shrug, “She’s fine,” which somehow hurt more than an insult. At parties, Patrick watched your face every time Art touched you, waiting for that flicker.

The first time you stepped onto the sand in Art’s hoodie and bikini, Patrick whistled, “You sure he’s the only one who gets to see that?” You rolled your eyes. “You’re disgusting.” He smirks at your insult at him, but he doesn't back down. “It’s a compliment.” Oh yeah, a compliment. What a nice one to name it. It’s fucking annoying that everything is just a joke. Always a joke to him. He never even tries to make it feel like a joke. Just make it hurt.

Because he's Patrick Zweig. He always makes you want to shoot his head. He would say something disgusting and dirty with a wink and provoke you until you felt a sick feeling in your stomach reacting. You tried showing Art you were uncomfortable, but Patrick was too quick. “She’s looking at me like she wants to fight,” he’d say lightly, and Art would laugh, “She’s all talk.”

So you’d swallow the heat in your cheeks, forced to laugh too, because what else could you do? Patrick would lean across the table, voice low, “Do you always wear gloss that is sticky, or just for him?” and you didn’t know if he wanted you to hate him or break first. It wasn’t immediate, that slow rot of it. At first, you were just Art’s girlfriend, tagging along, fading smiles, waiting through practice.

Patrick was just the roommate, the doubles partner with a jaw that never unclenched. You thought it was shyness. It wasn’t, not when he started with those glances that are too long and a shoulder bump that wasn’t friendly. Art didn’t notice, pulling you in with a laugh, saying, “You two are getting along now, huh?” You’d smile. Patrick wouldn’t, eyes pinned on you until your skin burned, pretending to listen to Art but never looking away.

You tried matching Art’s warmth, laughing when Patrick jokes, and asking polite questions. But every time, he punished you for trying. You asked if he liked your necklace. He didn’t look, just said, “Doesn’t seem like your style,” and walked away. You offered him gum in the car, and he took it, chewed, then said, “Tastes like lip gloss.” You rolled your eyes, and he grinned like it was all a game you were already losing. Then came the touches, small and deniable.

Under the table at dinner, his foot tapped your ankle- and stayed. When you moved, he followed. When you shifted, he shifted. Once, waiting for Art to change, Patrick brushed your hip as he passed. Not an accident, not casual, just enough to make you freeze before he kept walking like nothing happened. Then he got bolder. It happened during lunch months back when Art was so late and Patrick just stared at you. He's just staring at what you're doing while you can feel his knee contact with yours.

So you glare at him, I'm but his response to you is just to tilt his head and raise an eyebrow. “Relax. Art said you were friendly.” Later, he knocked your book off the arm just to make you bend. When you muttered, he smirked, “What? You’ve bent lower.” Your face went hot, throat tight, but he didn’t blink. Every time he stopped, the second Art walked back in. Like clockwork. Like he knew you’d never say anything- and liked it that way.

Art believed it all, the performances, the way Patrick would smirk and call you “princess” like a joke. The way he’d whistle when you wore something short before turning it into a compliment about “Art’s taste.” He knew how to turn it off the second Art looked, but you felt it every time. The way he leaned close, voice low, calling you by name like it tasted good. The way his hand lingered on your waist, your arm, that live-wire space between your ribs and hip. Art never saw it, not how Patrick always found a way to be alone with you.

Even if all Patrick said was, “Wearing perfume, or is that for Art?” Or grabbing your wrist a little too tight, muttering, “You don’t smell like someone who’s taken.” You hated him. Hated how good he was at being a dick in the most protected way. Hated how your face went hot when he looked at you like he knew something you didn’t want to admit. Hated how you could never tell if he wanted to mess with you- or if he already had.

And now here you are, in a frat house that’s massive in that old money and school legacy way. Hiding deep on campus, past the tennis courts, just there, arm enough that no one who’d care would notice. Finals over, music too loud, drinks too strong, strobe lights and smoke in every room. No one’s taking photos. No one’s snitching. Art’s hand finds your back the second you walk in, calm, guiding, no words needed. He belongs here, and so does Patrick.

Inside, it's limbs and liquor, beer pong and jungle juice, rooms pulsing with bass. Patrick’s there, leaning against the stair rail in a white tee, drink in hand, eyes dragging up your legs the second you walk in, but Art doesn’t notice. You do. You saw him watching you long enough to make you not surprised. A corner of the living room is claimed, drinks scattered, ash on the rug. Art sinks into the couch; you follow, his arm around your shoulders.

People you know sprawl around, someone on the floor, another perched on the armrest with a blunt. Patrick’s across from you, legs spread, drink on his thigh, watching, mouth twitching when your laugh softens. Someone passes a joint to Art, but he waves it off, Patrick taking it instead, smoke rolling slowly like a performance. “Didn’t know you were a lightweight,” Patrick says, and someone scoffs, “He’s boring when he’s in love.” Art pulls you closer, but your eyes are on the person who dares to say that. “Can’t risk losing my girl doing all of that shit.” Laughter, clinking cups, your face warm as you smile.

Patrick’s still watching. “Cute,” he says, flatly, and smirks a little at you when he sees that subtle reaction you made. “Bet she’s the type to throw up after one shot and still ask for another.” You don’t look at him because you know he'll just insult you. “Better than crying in a hallway ‘cause you lost pong,” so yeah, you know how to talk in front of him now without caring about who he is in Art’s life. Low “oooh” across the room, Art laughing, “She’s got a bite, huh? ”Patrick smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He sips his drink like it’s the last word but never stops looking at you.

You don’t even notice how packed the place has gotten, bodies everywhere, the air thick with weed, sweat, and something sugary. You’re on the couch between Art and a girl from the women’s team, skin warm, your skirt riding up, mesh top clinging, no bra, but you feel comfortable. Every time you lean forward, you feel Patrick’s gaze drag like teeth. Of course, he saw everything: Art’s hand on your back, your gloss fresh, your laugh bright, glowing like a star. And Patrick watches like he’s solving a problem that keeps smiling back.

Drink after drink, it's already past midnight, drinks are stronger, and the room is looser. Art’s warm, soft, leaning into you with a quiet murmur that makes the girl next to you giggle. You tuck closer, but his gaze is still there, flicking from your mouth to your lap to where Art’s hand keeps creeping higher. Art’s fingers slide beneath your skirt like he doesn’t even realize it, his mouth brushing your shoulder, the couch creaking under your weight.

Someone cracks a joke, laughter bouncing, but none of it touches your space. Just Art. He is being more clingy. More affectionate. More touchy, even if this is a public space. Art hums, pulling you closer, palm flat on your stomach. “Smell good,” he mumbles, and your eyes flick to Patrick before you move closer to your boyfriend. Patrick’s already looking sharp, leaning forward before a crooked smile flashes across his face.

You shift, drink empty, Art’s knuckles ghosting under your top, Patrick’s eyes locked on you, never looking away. The room spins in that syrupy, almost-drunk way, Art’s thumb drawing circles on your thigh. You murmur, “Bathroom, just a sec,” and he barely nods, distracted, lips brushing your temple again. When you stand, you straighten your skirt, and your top is still smooth while your heels click as you walk away from the scene. You feel eyes follow you, but you just continue.

He drains the last of his drink, sets the cup down, jaw tight, shoulders loose, still in that same seat. Until now. Art glances over to him, “Where are you going? ”Patrick shrugs, chin tipping toward the stairs. “Thought I saw someone I liked.” Art laughs, oblivious about what he's about to do. “You’re shameless.” Patrick smirks, “You say that like it’s new.” That’s it. Art doesn’t think twice; why would he? It’s Patrick, always fucking around. He always has girls in his arms. He doesn’t notice the way Patrick’s eyes track you, the heat in his step. He doesn’t know you’re the only one who went upstairs at this moment. But the bastard is already halfway to the stairs. He has this smile that you don’t know if you will get annoyed or not. He’s really confident like he’s really following someone he likes.

You closed the door when you reached the bathroom and didn’t slam it, but loud enough to make a sound. You locked it and the party sounds are not that loud inside but still bang against the wall because of the loud volume. The overhead light is too bright, gloss smudged, your neck sticky where Art kissed you, slow and tipsy, leaving his hand on your thigh too long. You don’t even need to pee; you just need a breath. You need a mirror, an excuse to get away from the couch, from Art’s heat, from the weight of Patrick’s stare across the room. You can still feel it, that look, how it drags over your skin no matter how crowded it gets. You swipe gloss over your bottom lip, steady, ignoring the trembling in your fingers, refusing to look like you’re hiding.

But of course, you’re not alone for long. He wants to break your peace too quickly, like a leech. Footsteps creak on the stairs, familiar enough that your jaw tenses before the knock even comes. It’s casual, like he owns the hallway. “Are you done yet? ” he calls, rough and flat, like he’s bored already while continuing to knock. “It’s occupied.” A pause, then, “Need to piss.” You roll your eyes, like… he can pick the other bathroom, and he's here. “There’s another one downstairs.” You stated that because he's just finding an excuse now, you feel it. “Line’s long. This one’s closer.” You roll your eyes, voice cool, “Sounds like a problem.”

Another knock, slower, just rhythm, toying with you. “Jesus. Chill out. Do your makeup or whatever while I take a piss. Just don’t look.” Your laugh is sharp. He's so unbelievable. So fucked up. Such an asshole. Really. “What makes you think I want to see you piss?” You are silent after that, and then there's the smug, nasty energy before it even lands. “You weren’t that shy when you were on your knees choking on my best friend’s cock.” You go still, heat climbing your neck, not shame- anger. Your hand slides to the lock, calm, opening the door slowly, steadily, and you look at him like you're sending him to his grave.

“Get a new obsession,” you say, voice flat, and face the mirror again like this is making you so bored. “That one’s old.” He pouts while he leans against the frame. He has this fake innocent look as he watches you. “It’s just an inside joke, chill,” Your fingers curl tight because what the fuck you supposed to feel when the inside joke is you giving your boyfriend a head? “You should focus your attention on someone who cares.” His smirk just widens like he's happy at what he heard. “Nice, cool. Don't give a fuck? Said by a girl who’s desperate for my attention.”

The door clicks shut when he finally goes inside. You stay by the sink, eyes on your reflection, gloss faded, concealer patchy, ignoring him. He unzips and starts pissing like it’s a show. You keep your focus on your mouth, the shape of your lips, dragging gloss back over them, top then bottom, careful, precise. The toilet flushes- zip, shift, maybe a shake. You couldn't care less anyway, so you just open your concealer and put some more underneath your eyes. You ignore the way there's tension because there's not.

There’s no warning or playing around when you feel him behind you. He’s like pressing his body against your back. So god forbid a girl needs a warning because maybe you don’t want his lips too close to you. Imagine if you move a little then your ass is pressing to his crotch. Yeah, imagine if you bend a little too. But what makes you jumpy is when his arms are between your legs against him when he slides them to open the faucet in front of you. Oh. Oh… Okay, that's a little embarrassing because he's just going to clean his hands, right? Water runs, splashing against the basin, while his other hand braces on the counter, caging you in. He washes his hands slowly, deliberately, letting droplets flick against your wrist. You keep dabbing concealer, acting untouched.

His hips press, casual, denim brushing the hem of your skirt. His shoulders brush yours every time he moves, steady, taking space like he’s testing how much you’ll tolerate. “Didn’t peg you for the type who fixes her face before she gets fucked,” he says, low and smooth. You don’t blink. “Didn’t peg you for the type who needs a mirror to feel tall.” A quiet huff of laughter, his breath warm against your temple. “Cute.”

You uncap your powder compact, pressing it against your cheek, ignoring the way his eyes drag down your reflection. “I saw how he was touching you downstairs,” Patrick murmurs, his voice closer, almost gentle, like a knife pressed flat. “Hands on your thighs, your waist. Let me guess- he fingers you under the blanket at parties, doesn’t he? Gets off on pretending no one knows.” Your jaw tightens, but you keep patting powder, ignoring the static crawling up your spine.

When he shifts, you can feel his hips now aligning with you. You could feel the way his jeans dragged slowly to your ass. “You let him fuck you in public like that, but up here, you need a minute alone?” You close the compact, lining your gloss and concealer on the sink, acting in control. “You talk a lot for someone who pisses like a drunk frat boy.” You stated, and you heard his voice drop when he answered that statement, teeth behind every syllable. “I’m just trying to understand. Is it that you like it soft? Or is it just that he can’t give you anything else? ”

You inhale, slow, measured, nails tapping marble. “Tell me,” he adds, lower, “does he even make you come?” You slam the gloss cap angrily as you turn slowly, back pressing into the sink, chin lifted. “I’m going to tell him you pissed on your hands and got water on my concealer.” He doesn’t flinch, leaning in, breath warm by your cheek, eyes on your mouth. “You know what’s wild?” he murmurs, voice curling dark. “Out of every girl begging for him, every future he could’ve chased- he ends up with you. And suddenly he forgets how to fucking win.”

You swipe gloss over your bottom lip, refusing to give him anything. His eyes track your mouth like he can’t help himself to watch you do that, especially if you have good lips. But he's a jerk, so it will not be the reason not to piss you off more. “Kind of tragic,” he continues, soft, lazy, and cruel. “The second he starts getting regular pussy, he stops showing up. Skips lifts, misses drills, can’t string a racquet without help.” Your lip twitches; you smooth it with your finger, eyes hard. “You must be proud,” he says, leaning closer, “ruined a whole prodigy with your legs spread.”

“Bet he tells you he’s lucky,” Patrick goes on, his voice darkening, soft enough to sink under your skin. “Bet he looks at you like you’re the reason he breathes, like you didn’t drag him off court into some pathetic boyfriend fantasy.” Your fingers press into the marble, gloss trembling. “Letting him fuck you in that dorm bed like it means something,” he says, “like moaning for him while I’m a few feet away doesn’t make you a joke.” Your throat shifts, but you don’t respond.

“Jesus, he fucks you like you’re made of glass,” Patrick adds, and that one slices deep. “You don’t want to be soft. You want someone who’ll grab you by the throat and ruin you. You want someone who’ll make you cry just to see how far he can take it. You want it to mean something. Don’t pretend you don’t.” You still don’t move, but he knows he’s winning, peeling you open layer by layer, and you hate him for it. You hate what he's doing right now. You hate him saying all of this bullshit.

Then softer, meaner, pressing close: “And I don’t even think you’re fixing your makeup for him.” You freeze, air stuck in your chest as you wait for his next words. “I think you’re fixing it for me.” His breath warms your cheek, that half-smirk in your periphery. “You want me to see it,” he says, low, patient, “want me to remember how pretty your mouth looked the first time I saw it full of his cock?”

Your fingers dig into the sink, shoulders tense, gloss still trembling on the marble. “You were so into it,” Patrick adds, grin slow and ugly, “down on your knees like some trophy whore with a mission, all devoted, like blowing him in the dark made you better than me.” Your jaw locks. “You came up here to feel clean again, didn’t you? ” he murmurs, voice almost soft. “But it’s still all over you, and we both know it.” Then, quiet, final, like dragging a match across the edge: “He’s the one getting your mouth. But I'll be the one to ruin it once we're finished.”

That’s the moment. Anger got deeper, hot in your throat, and you shoved him with both hands, teeth bared, in blind rage. He stumbles half a step, laughing under his breath, like it excites him. “Fuck you,” you spit, voice shaking. You glare at him while he still has that smug look on his face. Your hand slaps him before you even realize it. Your palm touches his cheek, hard. You feel it sting, and it leaves a red reaction on his cheek. His head turns a little to the action, but he just lets it happen and doesn't say anything. He's now talking to you, and he has something dark sparking in his eyes. Then he exhales, a wrecked grin barely holding. “There she is.”

Your hand hurts. You are not used to slapping people out of anger. Yeah, no shit, it's stinging a little. You practice your breathing while you're doing many activities. Cheeks are flushed and raw. Regardless of all of it, he still looks at you like it proved something, like it confirmed what he’s always known. “I’ve tried to be nice to you,” you say, low, shaking, eyes locked on him. “I fucking have.” His head tilts like it’s funny, like he’s indulging you, silent while you unravel. “I’ve let you get away with so much,” you continue, voice rising. “Because you’re Art’s friend. Because I thought if I ignored it, you’d get over it.”

Your chest heaves, heat crawling up your neck. “I didn’t tell him about the shit you’ve said when he wasn’t around. Or the way you touched my leg when you thought he couldn’t see. Or the way you look at me.” Your voice hardens, steady and cold. “You’re lucky, Patrick. Lucky I didn’t blow it all up the first time you opened your mouth. Lucky I kept it quiet. You think I couldn’t ruin you? ” He exhales slowly, the grin that follows calm and cruel, predictable. “As if he’d believe you.”

You freeze, the dismissal hitting harder than anything else tonight. His tone is light, like it’s obvious. He leans in, breath brushing your cheek, voice low. “You really think he’d believe you?” he murmurs. “The girlfriend who flirts with me when he’s out of the room? Who makes a scene every time I look at her, like she likes being watched?” Your jaw clenches, hands shaking. “He believes me,” Patrick finishes, no smirk this time, just that cold certainty. “Always has.”

Before you can speak, he moves. He grabs your wrists without warning and pins them down on the marble. Making you feel closed and caged in there with his body crowding you without any space left. His action made you unable to catch your breath; it was sudden and shocked you. You feel his grip tightening and rough enough to show you he has the upper hand, not you. He leans in like he might whisper something gentle, but nothing about Patrick Zweig is soft. “You are delusional to think he's going to believe you, because he's not,” he said, and he's pissed. His lips are so close to the point that you can feel the hotness of his breath against your face. “He’s not going to believe a single fucking thing you say about me.”

You turn your head, catching his eyes in the mirror, but he doesn’t look at you, too busy slicing. “You think he’d take your side over mine? Some girl he’s been fucking for what- eight months? Ten? Gets to undo everything? Rewrite the years?” His grip tightens, your wrists aching. “I’ve known him since before he had a serve. Before sponsors. Before he knew what to do with himself. We’ve roomed together, fought together, and won together. I’ve bled for him. I built him.”

Your laugh is bitter, breath hot. “You’re so fucking full of shit.” His mouth twitches. “And you’re so fucking temporary.” Your eyes narrow, your voice sharp, deadly. “This isn’t about Art believing me. It’s about you not being able to believe he chose me.” His eyes flick to yours, dangerous. “That’s what’s eating you alive, isn’t it?” You continue, breath catching. “That no matter how close you stand, no matter how much history you shove down everyone’s throat, he didn’t want you the way he wanted me.”

His face hardens, jaw tight, but he doesn’t interrupt, hands still locked around your wrists, body flush to yours. “You don’t hate me,” you said, almost challenging him. “I think you hate that you're not in my place,” you snap, and you are satisfied to see the crack in his expression when you said that because it's so fast- he got affected the moment you said those words. He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath, and you can feel the silence so loud it fills the whole bathroom. He leans in again, voice lower, scraped raw, closer than before. “I don’t want to be in your place,” he mutters. “I want to fuck you out of it.”

The moment lands, heavy, and then he moves- just a slow, steady shift of his hips, rough denim grinding against you, pressing close until your breath catches like a hook in your throat. His grip on your wrist doesn’t ease, body against you, cock dragging in you like he wants to wear you down one grind at a time. You hate how fast your body betrays you, how your thighs press together, how heat pools low in your stomach, shame curling with it. He feels it, of course he does, and the quiet, smug sound he lets out brands itself into your spine. “Didn’t even have to touch you yet,” he murmurs, not mocking- worse, admiring. “And you’re already squeezing your fucking legs like it’ll help.” You force your voice sharp, trying to cut through it. “Get the fuck off me-”

But you don’t believe it, not when he lets go of one wrist only to drag that hand down your side, slow enough you feel every inch. Over your ribs, pausing at your waist, gathering your skirt in his fist like he’s done it before, like he knows exactly what’s waiting. His palm grazes your inner thigh, heavy and possessive, and then it’s up, in, cupping you over your underwear like it’s nothing, like you’re nothing. Your breath catches too fast, and he groans because your body confirms everything he’s ever suspected about you. “Jesus,” he breathes. “He has no idea what he’s got, does he? Letting you walk around like this, untouched, leaking for the first person who calls you a slut.”

Your body burns, scraping up your throat like it has claws. “I’ll tell him,” you manage, voice shaking but jaw set. His hand stills for a moment against you. “I’ll tell Art. I’ll tell him you touched me, that you said all this shit, that you came in here and tried to-” You say too quickly, and your breath catches in your throat, making you not finish your sentence. “Tried?” Patrick laughs, sharp and slow, slicing you open. “You’re going to tell him I tried?” Your stomach turns, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s already pushing your panties aside like you never spoke, fingers slipping through the mess of you, dragging through your slick, and the stunned groan he lets out.

“You’re not going to tell him shit.” His breath is warm, calm, like it’s the harsh truth. Your breath hitches when his fingers drag up again, soaking and obscene in how easy it is for him to find how wet you are. “Because then you’d have to tell him the rest,” he murmurs, curling a finger, teasing without giving anything. “You’d have to tell him you stayed still. That you let me touch you. That you fucking liked it.” He chuckles when you arch and presses his hand unintentionally because your body is reacting to it. You feel the heat burning because of the anger, shame, and humiliation he's making you feel.

“You won’t say a word,” he stated and smiled at you because he's showing that you don't have a choice; it's said gently and softly, like a slap to your face. “Because you’re a cheating little whore who let me in.” Your breath hitches at his words before you shake your head. You're not a cheater. You're not. You're not an asshole like him who wants his girlfriend. You are not cheating on Art because you don't want it. You don't… right?

You can feel his hold on your wrist tighten, and he looks at your eyes while his other hand slips one knuckle deep and presses into you. “You let me in.” His voice is quiet, terrifying in its certainty, his hand dragging through your slick like it’s his reward for being right. Your hips twitch, betrayal hot and dizzying, the bathroom too small around the sound of your breathing. You react without thinking, twisting sharply, trying to shove him off, but he only smiles, hands shifting to your hips.

Before you can slap him, he moves, lifting you like it’s nothing, setting you down hard on the counter, cold marble against your ass. His chest crowds your knees, the bathroom buzzing with heat and light. You open your mouth to say many insults and curse him out and your legs are much more comfortable now. You took your chance anyway. You kick, distracted and your foot touches his stomach before you completely lose it. You just want to feel it, especially the kick. For a second, trembling, you think it’s over. Then he laughs, low and wrecked, half pain, half pleasure. “Oh, fuck, you’re really one of those.”

“You fight when you’re turned on, huh?” He taunts you and laughs while his eyes remain on you. “Kick me while I’m touching your pussy and expect me to believe you don’t want it?” You glare, chest heaving, anger in your throat, but he steps closer, wincing, still laughing. “Because I don’t,” you spit, shoving at him, but he’s already between your legs again, body heat rolling off him, oppressive. “No?” he mocks softly, tilting his head. “Then why are you soaked through your panties?”You try to slap him, but he catches your wrist midair, calm, practiced, eyes locked on yours, dark and vicious.

“You like it when I’m disgusting,” he says, voice low, almost tender. “You like it when I talk shit about your perfect little boyfriend. You want me to treat you like trash and fuck you stupid while you lie to his face.” You feel your pulse thrumming in your throat, and it's suffocating you. You don't look away as much, you try it because he keeps squeezing you every time you do it, and making your breath hitch. “You want it to be mean,” he adds. “So I’m going to give it to you.” His grip tightens, bruising where his fingers dig in, his cock hard against your inner thigh, breath ragged, ready, filthy with want. You’re perched on the cold counter, body flushed, heart hammering, thighs trembling- not with fear. With rage. With something worse than rage.

Before you can slap him, he moves, lifting you like it’s nothing, setting you down hard on the counter, cold marble against your ass. His chest crowds your knees, the bathroom buzzing with heat and light. You open your mouth to say many insults and curse him out but your legs are much more comfortable now. You took your chance anyway. You kick, distracted and your foot touches his stomach before you completely lose it. You just want to feel it, especially the kick. For a second, full of adrenaline, you think it’s over because he got the hint. Then he laughs, low and wrecked, half pain, half pleasure. “Oh, fuck, you’re really one of those.”

“You fight when you’re turned on, huh?” He taunts you and laughs while his eyes remain on you. “Kick me while I’m touching your pussy and expect me to believe you don’t want it?” You glare, chest heaving, anger in your throat, but he steps closer, wincing, still laughing. “Because I don’t,” you spit out, shoving at him, but he’s already between your legs again, body heat rolling off him, oppressive. “No?” he mocks softly, tilting his head. “Then why are you soaked through your panties?” You try to slap him, but he catches your wrist midair, calm, practiced, eyes locked on yours, dark and vicious.

“You like it when I’m disgusting,” he says, voice low, almost tender. “You like it when I talk shit about your perfect little boyfriend. You want me to treat you like trash and fuck you stupid while you lie to his face.” You feel your pulse thrumming in your throat and it's suffocating you. You don't look away as much, you try it because he keeps squeezing you every time you do it, and making your breath hitch. “You want it to be mean,” he adds. “So I’m going to give it to you.” His grip tightens, bruising where his fingers dig in, his cock hard against your inner thigh, breath ragged, ready, filthy with want. You’re perched on the cold counter, body flushed, heart hammering, thighs trembling- not with fear. With rage. With something worse than rage.

You’ve had enough. You look him dead in the eye, voice cold and flat. “You’re just pissed he gets to fuck this pussy and you don’t.” It’s not a tease, it’s a bullet, and you see the twitch in his jaw before his smile vanishes like you punched him harder than your foot ever could. It only lasts a second before twisting into something darker, unhinged. “Oh yeah?” he says, voice rough, all threat, before grabbing your thighs, harsh and fast, shoving them open so wide the counter edge bites your legs. He steps in, crowding you completely, hands spreading you like he’s got something to prove and no patience left to do it gently.

“I’m going to fuck it too,” he snarls. One hand yanks your panties down in one motion, dragging the soaked fabric past your knees like it offends him, like it proves every awful thing he’s ever said about you. He lets it drop to the floor and ignores it, like you never meant to keep it on. “You think letting him in first means anything to me? I’m still going to have a taste.” You glare at him because that's what you do. You always try not to react when he does something stupid. You try not to show how much he's getting under your skin and how naked you feel right now. You try not to make your thighs tremble worse than they're doing right now. You try not to feel something you refuse to name. You just hate him when he does something like this as if his breath is hot and close to your jaw, hands rough on your hips, voice low, “You let him in. Now you’re going to let me take it.”

Something in you snaps. Without even realizing it, you shoved him hard. But as expected, he barely moves an inch, he just waits for you to do more. So you just say something, “You better fuck me better than he does, or I’m telling him everything.” This is messy, you know that. You shouldn't give in, you also know that. But you are prideful and you refuse to back down from Patrick. He doesn’t laugh but he smiles, darker, breathes in like your words are the best thing he’s ever tasted. Then moves, reaching into his pocket without looking away. He flips open his phone, presses record, and points the camera at you.

“What the fuck are you-” you start, but he cuts you off. “I want you to remember this,” he says, voice low. “Have something to have in my memorabilia when you are playing good girlfriend to Art.” You watch him kneel in front of you and he opens your legs wider as he settles on the tile. His grip is not changing, it's still tight and firm, and his nails are digging. It's embarrassing actually how your panties are tangling at your ankles, and the heat of his breath is getting closer to where you want him. One hand holds the phone, the other slides up your leg, mapping out what’s his, eyes flicking up, not asking, just memorizing you.

“I want you to cum on my tongue,” he says like it's already decided and approved by you, “and then I’m going to make you watch it happen.” You just nod while you feel your breath stutter. You can’t speak because the words are dying on your tongue as his tongue drags across your inner thigh, slow and teasing like he's taunting you while making you twitch. He exhales and laughs like he feels everything building in your pulse, your shaking legs. Then, softer but dark enough to slice you open, he whispers, “Tell the camera.” You don’t move, breath caught, and shaking. “Tell him I made you forget his name.”

And with that, he buries his face between your legs like he’s been waiting forever. You’re shaking now as you watch him still filming, and you're trying to keep control like the words can keep your body in line- but it’s slipping. His mouth is too fucking good because goddamn, he's not just licking you like with what he use to other girls. You feel him learning. He's moving his tongue like he's remembering the shape and he's mapping you. He's learning every movement in your hips, every moan you are trying to swallow but fail, and he wants to own every sound you make. You don’t move at first, not when his breath ghosts over your thigh, not when his mouth hovers like he thinks he’s worshipping something.

You just reach down, fingers closing over the phone still in his hand, and when he doesn’t stop what you're doing, you snatch it. He doesn't even blink and lets you take it. You tilt the camera, angle it right, his face framed by your thighs, slick between them, nothing else. You press record. And you smile at him like there's a switch that just got turned on. “Look at you,” you murmur and mocking him. “On your knees for a girl you can’t fucking stand.” His tongue flicks over your mound and you don’t flinch.

“You talk all that shit about how I mess him up, how I made him soft, how I fucked up his game.” You tilt the phone to catch his mouth around your cunt, especially him licking your clit. “But here you are, pathetic, obsessed, tongue out like a fucking dog.” He groans when you call him that word while his mouth is open, tongue dragging up your slit like he’s trying to drown in it, like this is what he’s always wanted. You feel the heat and the mess, the way your body reacts, but you don’t let it show. Not yet. Not going to give him that satisfaction. “You pretend you hate me, but this is what you’ve been begging for.”

He grunts into your pussy, fingers digging into your thighs, tongue sloppy and eager. “God, listen to you,” you whisper, your voice hard even as your thighs tremble. “It’s embarrassing how you moan like it's the real cunt you've ever eaten.” His body shudders at that, his hips twitch like he wants to rut against the floor, like he's soaked inside his clothes and tip dripping. “You love this, don’t you?” You breathe, still filming, your grip steady. “Being on your knees, being used, being recorded like the pathetic freak you are.” His mouth closes around your clit, and your voice finally cracks, a sharp gasp tearing out as your legs shake.

But you keep going, shaking, spit-slick, and ruined. “You’ve wanted it since the first time you saw me fuck him,” you say, breath ragged, mean. “You wanted to know what I taste like when I’m thinking about someone else.” He groans, jaw working faster, tongue relentless, hitting perfectly, your body tightening and arching, moans wrecked. “You like taking people’s girlfriends,” you hiss, fisting his hair, grinding him into you. “Sick.” He whines, tongue moving like he needs it to live, humiliated and desperate.

You press the phone closer, making the angle worse for him and better for you. Through your own shaking, gasping moans, you whisper, “You better make me come so hard I forget his name.” He moves unexpectedly and his action made you jumpy because you can feel his grip tighten as he pulls your thighs even wider open to keep you in your place. Then his mouth close around your clit, and he sucks hard. Your whole body jolts like he shocked you, a sound catching in your throat before you can silence it. It spills out high, sharp, and raw- and he knows.

He groans against it which makes a vibration through the action as he does it with his tongue flicking and his lips dragging sloppy and relentlessly head to you. Like he’s giving you something no one ever gave you before. You choke on the moan, trying to keep it quiet, but it slips. “It feels- fuck- it feels good.” You freeze the second you hear yourself say it. He doesn’t. He moans into you again, louder, deeper, like it’s praise, tongue drawing slow circles, lips sucking hard, rhythm locked in, a wicked smirk pressed into your cunt like he just won the match point.

You try to yank his hair, to glare, to be mean or something, but he’s not having it. His tongue flicks faster, and you feel the orgasm building in your spine, and it’s inevitable. While he’s sucking- devouring- grinning- smug- piece of shit, because you slipped, because you admitted it felt good, and now he’s going to make sure you remember it. But instead of speeding up, instead of chasing your orgasm, he changes. Slow. Smooths out his movements like he’s changing lanes, like this isn’t just about your pleasure anymore. His tongue moves slowly, every stroke carved with intent which is to make you cum. A single line, then a curve, then a sharp flick.

You feel it in your thighs first, then your gut, your brain catching up. He’s spelling something. P…flick up, drag down across your clit. A… soft sweep, almost a shape. T… slow, pressing, obscene. Of course, you try not to give in like biting your lips but your body isn’t listening to what you want and keep bucking and your breath is like you are running in a marathon. And he keeps going. R… a drawn slowly, tongue curling to do the letter. I… just a short stroke, playful dot after. C… just a curl of his tongue from up to the left, like you’re drawing a rainbow. K… this letter is wetter, meaner, and worse than the last. You want to say his name to tell him to stop, but that’s the point. He wants it in your mouth.

He pulls back, mouth slick down to his chin, lips parted, eyes dark and shining when he says, “You feel that?” You’re panting, trembling, trying not to nod. “That’s me,” he says, smiling into your thigh before he bites it and sucks it a little. “That’s Patrick.” Then he leans in and spells it again, slow this time to taunt you as if he’s making fun of this situation because he’s making sure you’ll feel it when you sit, when you shower, when Art’s inside you and you can’t help but remember. Your hand slips, the phone drops down beside her, still recording every soaked, ruined sound echoing from the bathroom. It doesn’t matter anymore. You’re not acting for the camera, and you’re breathing but barely. Your hands clawing at the counter while Patrick’s mouth eats you down piece by piece.

He groans against your cunt, tongue dragging, jaw relentless, pulling back to speak, mouth hovering over your clit like a threat. “Jesus. You’ve got no shame,” he mutters. “This pussy’s unreal. And you waste it on him?” You try to breathe, shaking your head, but it doesn’t matter. He groans, tongue pressing flat and slow like he’s licking you clean, “He doesn’t deserve this. You let him touch you like it means something.” You whine and your legs twitch when his hold tightened and making them stay still and pinning you in place as if he knows you are getting a wobbly feeling.

“You like this, don’t you?” he asks, voice sharp, ugly but he’s smirking at the audacity of the situation. “You like cheating on him, lying to his face, then spreading your legs for me.” You kick your foot in the air but he just shuts it down by pinning it back where it was. You shake your head as his words get into you. “Shut up,” you gasp, but it’s weak, drowned out by the sound of your body soaking his mouth. “You don’t want love,” Patrick grunts, sucking your clit hard like it’s punishment. “You want this. You want to be fucked. You want to be used. You want me to fuck you while you still smell like his sheets.” You let out a broken cry, legs shaking, orgasm right there, hot and you can’t stop it.

“Say it,” he growls, licking you rougher, faster, and meaner. “Say you like cheating on him.” You can’t speak, mouth open, whimpers spilling instead of words. He pulls back just enough to say it again, meaner, louder, “Say. You like cheating on him.” Then he sucks, deep, long, and hard, and you shatter, coming with a sound that doesn’t sound like yours, body seizing, thighs clamping, voice cracking open into a moan that lives in shame. Just before it takes you under, before you lose everything, he says it, low, laughing, awful: “Fuck, listen to you. You’re coming like you were made to cheat.”

You’re shaking, hot and soaked, nerves frayed from being edged and denied, everything in you strung tight and aching. You didn’t realize how close you were until he ripped his mouth away, leaving you open, wanting, and ruined. Your thighs twitch, hips searching for contact, for anything. But he doesn’t give it. You watched him unbuckle his belt while his eyes were locked on you as you fell apart in front of him. You hear his zipper slowly slide down, metal sounds echoing and then he pulls out his cock from inside, it’s thick, flushed, already slick from watching you unravel.

You want to spit something, anything, but your mouth is dry, breath shallow, and hands braced against the counter like you’ll slide off if he touches you again. He steps forward, eyes on yours, stroking himself once, twice, dragging the head of his cock up your soaked slit. He doesn’t push in, just lets it rest there- heavy, hot, a promise. “You don’t like cheating?” he murmurs, soft enough to sound gentle but meant to make you sick. “Then what the fuck is this?” You open your mouth, but he moves before you can speak, cock rolling against you, dragging through slick that makes you both groan, your legs twitching wide.

“Say it,” he says, tongue pressed to his teeth, “Lie to me again. Tell me you don’t want this.” You can’t, not with how you’re pulsing, cunt clenching every time the head of his cock bumps your cunt, still twitching from the orgasm taken away from you. And he knows it. He presses forward- just the tip. He did it just close- enough for you to feel the first stretch, the first pulse of yes where there should be no. “You left him downstairs,” Patrick breathes, dragging the tip over your clit, slow and filthy. “Still sitting there. On that couch. Right where you told him you’d be back.”

His voice sounds jealous, and low. “He’s probably sipping that drink like a good boy, waiting, doesn’t even realize you’re up here dripping for me.” And downstairs there’s Art shifts on the couch, the party humming around him, laughter echoing off the tile. Someone bumps the couch, but barely hears it. He checks his phone. There’s nothing. No “on my way.” No “almost done.” Just silence. While upstairs, Patrick finally pushes in- not all the way but enough to make your body twitch, to watch your mouth part like it forgot how to lie.

His hand is on your hip, breath warm at your ear. “And you’re about to let me fuck the pussy he thinks is his.” You don’t reply to that but you don’t close your legs either. He takes that as a yes, sinking in with one long, thick slide until he’s buried to the base. Your back hits the mirror, your breath breaking on a moan you can’t hold back. It doesn’t matter. He starts to move, counter creaking under your hips, strokes slow, deep, and unforgiving. Your palms press back against the mirror behind you, breath catching as he fucks you. You try to stay quiet. You fail. “He’s going to find out,” you whisper, breathless. Patrick smirks, “No,” he murmurs back, “He’ll never know.” Then he fucks you harder.

The music keeps rolling somewhere below, a muffled thump under the sharp slap of skin, under the choked sounds you can’t hold back. But Art is still there. In the living room where you left him. The room is still glowing while he’s holding a cup with a drink he’s not going to drink anymore. And suddenly someone speaks, “She’ll be back,” but it doesn’t reach him, not really. His hand tightens on the cup. He’s moving before he even realizes it, stepping into the dark, following the ghost of your laughter, the shadow of your absence. Above him, Patrick continued his movements inside of you. His thrusts are heavy, cock dragging slow, pressing the guilt deeper with every stroke.

You’re shaking, trying not to say his name, but a moan slips out. Patrick groans. “If he finds out,” he says, voice sharp, fucking in harder, “it’s because you told him.” He grinds deeper, your hips jerking. “Otherwise, he’ll never fucking know.” And what both of you know is that he’s outside. He just stops in front of it after seeing the closed bathroom door with the light on. He doesn’t go to it, just stands, face changing slightly. He hears it- a thud, a breath, something wet, the sound of something.

In the bathroom, Patrick leans in, voice rough, dragging his cock deep with a thrust that makes your breath catch. “Are you going to tell him, huh?” he murmurs, teeth grazing your skin. “Are you going to walk out of here soaked in my cum and explain why you’re walking differently?” You choke on your moan, shaking your head, nails scraping the mirror. “Say it.” Your voice breaks, “Fuck- he’ll never know.” Patrick groans, hips stuttering as he slams back in, filthy and unforgiving, “That’s right.”

Art steps closer to the bathroom door. He doesn’t touch the handle, doesn’t knock, just stands there, listening. Because the sound behind it- low, steady, awful- doesn’t stop. Not when you whisper that Art might find out, not when your breath catches like it’s already too late. If anything, Patrick fucks you harder, grip tightening on your waist, jerking your hips back into every thrust like you’re nothing but leverage. Push you more over the counter, one of his hands flat palmed on the glasses while the other wraps around your hair. When he pulled, it earned a sound from your throat while your head snapped back, and your spine arched.

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear, “Think he could ever fuck you like this?” Patrick hisses, cock grinding deep, words soft enough to burn. You bite your lip, but he pulls harder, forcing your body to answer for you. “Think he could choke you the way you like?” His hand slides to your throat, wraps around it, pressing until your pulse hammers against his palm, the room going warm around the edges. “Poor Art,” he mutters, teeth scraping your jaw, “still out there thinking you’re his.” He fucks in harder, rhythm filthy enough to echo in the hall, sink creaking beneath you as you fail to swallow your moan. “He doesn’t even know how to ruin you,” Patrick snarls, hips snapping, “doesn’t even know how to keep you.”

“Go ahead. Slap me.” You do, twisting to crack your palm across his face, sharp and loud. It only makes him groan. “God,” he pants, “fucking knew you wanted this.” He thrusts in rougher, hands around your throat, not cutting off air- just making you take it. Outside, Art steps closer, frozen, head tilted, the party still happening behind him. At first, he tells himself it’s nothing- just other people. But it’s not working. He hears it all now, wet and steady, a slap, a moan that goes straight to the center of him.

His blood goes quiet, like something inside is holding its breath. His hand hovers near the knob but doesn’t move. And then he hears Patrick’s voice, low, ragged, and familiar in a way that tastes like a poison now. “Think he could ever fuck you like this?” It lands heavy, sour, and immediately. Almost like he’s saying this out of spite, but you don’t know if it’s to him or you. Then: “Doesn’t even know how to ruin you.” Art doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe. Then he hears you- your voice, soft, cracked, gutted, trying not to sound but still sounding. His hand twitches, but he doesn’t knock. He tells himself he should demand the truth, but his body doesn’t move.

Then he notices the pressure in his jeans, realization sinking as he gets hard. Which is sick not because he wants to or it’s real. Maybe it’s the irony of it. His girlfriend. His best friend. One bathroom. Noises are so filthy. He feels sick, but he’s still standing there. Then Patrick’s voice comes again, closer, deliberate: “You gonna walk back into that party full of me and lie to his fucking face?” Art’s lips part, but nothing comes out, his cock aching so hard it hurts. Inside, Patrick’s got you pressed against the sink, stuffed full, every thrust deliberate, designed to drag the truth out of you whether you speak it or not.

“Bet he’s out there,” Patrick mutters, grinding deep as if he already knows Art is outside. Maybe he just says that out of the thrill. He groans at the thought though with a big smirk on his face, “still waiting, still thinking you’re his.” You snap, slapping his chest, but he just laughs, fucking you deeper. “Keep going,” he breathes, “fight me.” He encourages and licks his lips while his hips continue to work and still smug. “I-I hngh… h-hate you,” you moan out, hands flatten to his chest to shove him off, but his hands tighten, dragging you back onto him. “No, you don’t,” he growls, thrusting roughly, the counter making sounds beneath you. Your nails digging at his forearm, nails deep, but he groans like he likes it. “G-get off me, P-pat,” you gasp, but you don’t stop him.

“You don’t want that either.” His voice is ragged, breathless, body is hot against you. You feel how deep he is, dragging through everything slick and tense, hating how your body responds. “I don’t even like y-you-” You gasp, breath catching, throwing your hands into his ribs. It lands hard. He grunts, but it only makes him moan, teeth flashing in a grin. “Fuck, you always get like this when you’re about to come?” You scratch down his shoulder, carving lines, and he groans, cock twitching. “God,” he breathes out, voice low and pleasured, “you’re hot when you’re pissed.”

“I swear to God I’m telling him-” you bite out, but Patrick laughs at that. “No, you’re not,” he pants, teeth at your shoulder, hand on your waist, pulling you back onto him like leverage. “Because you’re going to come for me first,” he breathes, “and then you’re going to lie.” Your cunt betrays you, tightening around him. “You think he’d still want you,” Patrick growls, “if he saw you like this?” You slam your palm into his chest, but he catches your wrist, grabbing your hair, yanking your head back until your spine arches, mouth open in a gasp.

“You think he’d still want you,” he whispers again, voice poison, “if he knew I was the one who made you scream?” Your head tips back, his name slipping out, sharp and unwilling, barely a gasp. He groans against your throat like he’s won. Outside, Art stands frozen, listening to the wet slap of skin, your soft stuttered gasps. Patrick’s voice drips low, “If he knew I was the one who made you scream.” It lands like a punch, knocking air from Art’s lungs.

He stares at the floor while his hands are shaking. He could very much see the tent forming in his jeans before he pulled out his phone from his pocket. He checks his contacts and your name is already there. Click your contact and pray to saints that you’ll answer even if he knows you wouldn’t. The ringtone starts just beyond the door, too loud. You don’t move. Patrick keeps fucking with you, body hitting yours while your phone rings out, thumping on the counter. Patrick laughs low, “Answer it.” Nothing. A moan.

You feel his hands on your top before he squeezes it. “Fuck… you have great tits.” Art lowers the phone, lips parting, cock hard, so hard it makes him sick. The phone rings again, slicing sharply. Patrick doesn’t stop, driving deeper with a sharp thrust that jolts your hips. “Answer it,” he mutters, voice thick with cruelty. “Let him hear you.” Your hand reaches for the phone, but Patrick’s already there, locking around your waist, dragging you back onto him. “Or don’t,” he says, slower, “let it ring while he listens to me fuck you.” You shake your head, hating what he’s saying. “Stop,” you whisper, voice cracking, “fuck, stop- he’s-”

“He’s what?” Patrick breathes, cock slamming up into you with thick, wet sounds. “He’s out there?” Your body shakes, arms trembling, thighs clenching around him like your cunt doesn’t know this is betrayal, only that you’re full. The phone rings again, Patrick leaning closer, grinding deep, mouth hot on your neck. “Let him hear it,” he whispers, “let him hear how messy you get for me.” You try to shove him off, but your hips push back, a moan catching in your throat. The phone thumps again, your hand knocking it away. You don’t try again.

Patrick keeps moving, steady and mean, fucking you through your panic. “You think he still wants you?” he growls, cock dragging slow, “Think he still wants to come home with you? Look you in the eyes? Tell you how lucky he is?” You shake your head, breath ragged, “Patrick-” Another thrust, hard, deep. The ringtone cuts off, leaving silence thick and awful. He doesn’t stop. Patrick’s breath is damp on your ear, his voice low and awful. “He’s calling because he knows.” You choke. “And you’re still letting me in.” You try to let your head fall, but Patrick cradles your jaw, forcing you to look.

“Look,” he says, breathe hot, “look at what I’m doing to you.” He tilts your face down, your lashes dragging low, vision clearing between your legs, and you nearly choke. It’s obscene, your thighs spread over his hips, trembling, skin tacky where he holds you open. Between them, his cock buried thick, dragging slow with every thrust, so deep it feels like it’s in your ribs. You’re flushed, leaking, your slick painting him with every ruined pass of his hips. He pulls back, the light catching where you glisten, before he fucks back in, wetter, meaner. “God,” Patrick breathes, “you see how you take me?” You can’t answer, your cunt tightening in helpless waves. It’s too much, too perfect, too disgusting.

“That’s mine,” he whispers at your jaw. “This pretty pussy, dripping. Mine.” Your head falls forward, chest stuttering. He fucks deeper, grinding like he’s carving it into you. His palm presses low on your belly, to where he stretches you deepest. “Are you going to come?” he murmurs, dragging his thumb over your clit, slow and filthy. “Gonna soak me just in time for him to take you home?”You sob out something that might be a yes.

He groans, jaw tight, pace breaking. “I’m going to fill you up,” he growls, “so full you’ll feel it every time you walk.” That does it. Your body open the gates and your thighs locked on his waist while your cunt is clenching tight around his cock. You bury your face in his neck before your orgasm rolls out of your body and your breath feels like it stopped. But Patrick keeps moving, slower, desperate, hips stuttering. He’s still inside you when he comes, deep and raw, breath hitching, cock pulsing thick. You feel it fill you, slick and wrong and perfect.

Even after, quiet and spent, he doesn’t pull out. He stays, one hand curled around your thigh, the other ghosting up your spine, breath warm at your cheek. You feel it before he says it, that last whisper: “Tell me what you see.” And you do. You look down at your lap, at the mess, at where he’s still inside you, your cunt stretched and twitching, flushed and leaking. You swallow. “My pussy,” you rasp.

Patrick smiles, but it’s not soft, just sure. His hand strokes along your thigh, fingers grazing where your skin is glossy from sweat and slick. He shifts once, just enough for you to feel it- he’s still inside, still thick, still hard. “You think he’ll feel it?” Patrick says, voice low, cruelly soft. “When he fucks you later, do you think he’ll notice how loose you are?” You shake your head, too fast, too weak, and he pushes deeper. It just made your body twitch. “I think he will,” he whispers, eyes locked on yours, “I think he’ll slide in and feel the shape I left.”

Your cunt clenches, instinct and betrayal. Not liking the way you like his words is affecting you. Patrick groans, “Fuck. You like that, knowing I did this.” You go still, too still when his hand presses low on your belly, palm flat. He’s feeling the shape of his cock against it. “You think he’ll pretend not to notice?” he murmurs, “that he won’t feel you dripping on me while he fucks you later in the dark?” You close your eyes, don’t answer. But he knows you won’t clean up, not if he doesn’t make you. And he won’t. He stays a moment longer, then finally, he pulls out.

You feel it immediately- the stretch, the slide, the slow spill of his cum dripping down your thighs, pooling beneath you. It’s everywhere. You don’t move but Patrick does. He smooths your skirt back down like he didn’t just fuck the soul out of you, tucks himself away, and runs a hand through his hair like nothing happened. He doesn’t look at you when he leaves. He doesn’t have to but he manages to close the door. What an asshole. You’re still on the counter, legs open, mouth parted, full of him.

While Art managed to go downstairs before you and Patrick finished what you’ve been doing. But he hadn’t meant to stay that long or to spy, his intention was only meant to check. You’d been gone too long, your phone ringing unanswered- that was it. A concern, a quiet pull in his chest: Go see. He hadn’t meant to stay, not after the knock went unanswered, not after hearing a voice that wasn’t yours- at least, not like that. But then Patrick had said something low and possessive, and Art just went still.

Then he heard you, soft, desperate, almost broken, and he couldn’t really move. Not when the sounds got clearer, not when it became obvious, not when Patrick started saying things no man should hear about their girlfriend. He told himself he’d leave, that he hadn’t heard enough to be sure. And then Patrick asked if you were coming, and you did. The second Art heard that sound, he turned and left, no slamming, no scene. It’s not him. Not very Art Donaldson to force open the door and pick up a fight with you and Patrick.

So he just walks away. It’s like the walk when you can’t be in that place. That you heard enough. He feels every step, it’s heavy with his jaw locked just to keep himself from shouting and saying vile things. He walk straight to the kitchen as if he’s not standing in front of the bathroom door hearing his girlfriend getting dicked down by Patrick. He just leans against the counter while he’s trying to take it all in and the party still keeps going. He knows someone call his name but he doesn’t give a fuck at this moment. He stares at the floor, still hearing that soft gasp you made when Patrick is inside you. His stomach turns.

Art doesn’t know if he wants to hit Patrick or himself, doesn’t know who to blame first, and doesn’t know if he wants to see you again tonight or disappear before you come back down. But he waits. He waits like something caught in a fire- quiet, cornered, burning. He doesn’t look up when he hears Patrick on the stairs, already knowing it would be him, already tracking the minutes. No rush in Patrick’s step, like he doesn’t have something to sneak out of and he’s more satisfied than guilty or ashamed.

Patrick’s shirt is rumpled, hair messy, mouth softened into that tired smirk Art’s seen before. He heads for the drinks without a glance, pops the cap like he’s earned it. Art doesn’t speak until after Patrick takes his first sip. “How was it?” he asks, too casually, not lifting his gaze. Patrick turns halfway, brows raised. “What?”

Art keeps his tone even, almost friendly. “The hookup. You said you found someone.” He sips the drink he managed to get before he saw Patrick, then looks up, unreadable. “I assume it went well.” There’s a flicker in Patrick’s eyes. “Yeah,” he says carefully. “She was into it.” Art hums, not quite agreement, not quite disbelief. Just like his normal self he can plaster right now to pretend he’s not seething. “Of course,” he says.

Art laughs before saying, “You always have a different taste you know? Always going to the girls who should know better.” He can’t tell what Art is planning by saying that but he’s not happy hearing it and his mouth twitches.“She has a name?” Art asks, trying to sound like a curious best friend, and when Patrick doesn’t answer, he doesn’t press. He tilts his head. “She must be very pretty to have your own drink abandoned. Like it doesn’t sound like you. You were so eager to go upstairs.”

Patrick exhales dry amusement. “I wasn’t the only one interested.” Art’s eyes flick down, then back up. He sees the careless tilt of Patrick’s shoulders, the quiet arrogance. “No,” Art agrees. “But you’ve always liked being first, haven’t you? Doesn’t matter who she is, what her body is, or if she’s in a relationship.” That land, too striking, but hidden in plain sight. Patrick’s grip tightens on the bottle, and Art lets the silence stretch. “Anyway,” Art says softly, turning away, “I hope it was worth it, Pat. She doesn’t usually fake it. Then again, maybe she didn’t have to.” He knows he shouldn’t say that knowing that he doesn’t know the ‘she’ in his excuse beside he knows he won’t tell him it’s his girlfriend.

While the tension is thick downstairs, here you are, you don’t move for a while after the door clicks shut. The bathroom is still heavy. Your thighs stick, slick cooling on your skin. You breathe shallow, like anything deeper might push what’s left of him further in. Eventually, you shift. Reach for a tissue. Then another. You clean the mess between your legs with shaky hands. You are trying to erase it. Removing the shame. The guilt. The action. None of the wipes worked. Your pussy still aches, clenching over nothing and it’s pulsing.

Thankfully your panties are still very much alive and you get them before you put them on despite the uncomfortable feeling it makes between your legs. Your hands are hard against the fabric even though you are trying to smooth out the wrinkly part of it because it looks like it just got out of the laundry and you are pretending right. You look at yourself: hair messy, lips smudged with the lip product you put earlier, mascara fucked and your legs are shaking as you stands right now. But you start fixing it like what you were supposed to do earlier when you planned to go there. Just to retouch and get some air. You put concealer, retouch under your eyes, gloss your lips, and fix your hair. But you’re not even rushing even as you should considering how long you’ve been gone, but you’re not stalling either. Wipe, fix, adjust, and stack these steps like armor.

Now you don’t look like that girl anymore. You lean closer, studying your reflection, the flush blooming under your makeup, the raw part of your lip. You take a deep breath as you straighten how you stand, closing the compact and you exhale. The hallway is suspiciously quiet when you open the door of the bathroom and you step out of it. You are nervous as hell as you go downstairs slowly, not hurried. Each step you are doing feels another sin adding to the existing list you have. Your breath is shaky and your hands are too while you continue to swiping them on your skirt before you round the corner.

The kitchen is still the same. Still bright. Full of drinks. The place is still crowded and loud and it’s starting to get annoying. Patrick sees you first. He doesn’t move, just watches. You don’t look at him. You don’t have to. Art is already crossing the room, quick but not rushed, like he’s been waiting for you. “Hey,” he says, soft, warm, too easy now. “Where have you been?” Before you answer, his hand is on your back, guiding you like nothing’s wrong. His other hand lifts yours, brushing your knuckles, kissing your cheek, smiling like he means it.

“You okay?” he asks, low. “You look flushed.” You nod. Behind you, Patrick shifts but doesn’t speak. Art turns slightly, hand still at your hip, thumb grazing in slow, familiar circles. “Was just telling Patrick we might head out,” he says, like it’s decided. “Unless you want to stay?” You shake your head. Art leans in near your ear, smiling. “That’s what I thought.” His grip feels possessive but not hurting you, it’s soft and gentle but you can feel the decision in it as he turns to Patrick. He has this same, still his best friend still your loving boyfriend. Only his eyes look dangerous.

You don’t say goodbye. Art curls his hand around your hip, steering you toward the front door, coat over his arm, voice low like nothing’s changed. You don’t look back; just let him guide you out, down the hall, through the kitchen where Patrick stands, silent and unmoving. No one stops you. No one sees the tension in your spine, the way your fingers flex. No one notices the way Art glances over his shoulder just once- not at you, not at the party, but at Patrick. And Patrick doesn’t follow. He watches the door close with his jaw tight, hands in his pockets. Every muscle he has is locked like he’s holding himself together for something he knows he doesn’t have the right to. He will not go back to the room that night. He knows both of you will be there. Can’t stand it.

You shower quietly, water running longer than needed. You shower like you want it all to go away. You feel shit even when you finished, skin damp, wearing one of Art’s shirts, he’s already in bed, lamp on, watching. You don’t meet his eyes, but you climb in anyway. He doesn’t reach right away, just watches you pull the blanket up like it might cover anything. Then he moves. His hand slid in. You feel the soft touch on your skin. It’s slow. Gentle. Familiar. He’s grazing the softness of your stomach before it gets lower. You let him slip it between your legs and you got tense but you still continued with it. You don’t stop it. Makes you feel sick that you want it after just what happened with Patrick. “You’re always so quiet after parties,” he murmurs. His fingers press in, two at once, smooth, and you bite down on a breath. Your thighs twitch. “Still so warm,” he says. “So soft for me.”

His voice stays low. He doesn’t move his hand, just keeps it there, deep, surrounded by the evidence of what isn’t his. “I can’t tell if you’re like this because of me…” he adds, shifting, “or because someone else got to you first.” You open your mouth but say nothing. He curls his fingers, watching you flinch. Then he leans in, his breath grazing your cheek. “You let him fuck you raw?” You jerk like you might pull away, but he doesn’t let you. His other hand moves to your hip, holding you still. “That’s not a no.” He smiles, not angry, just satisfied. “That’s okay,” he whispers like it’s not fucked up. Like everything is alright. “You think Patrick left a mark?” His voice drops, darker, right at your ear. “You have no idea how long I can stay inside you.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. His voice stays calm, loving even- like when he teases you after class. Only now his fingers are inside you, his mouth near your ear, his thumb brushing your hip like reassurance, not control. He feels so gentle but you know that this is not gentleness, it’s his way of punishing you. “You could’ve just told me, you know,” he says softly and he kisses your shoulder. He’s peppering the skin he can touch with his lips with kisses. Soft and gentle. Forgiving even. “if you wanted to fuck my best friend.” He said like it’s decided already. His mouth grazes your jaw, exhaling your scent like a sigh, like he’s disappointed, not angry. “Next time tell me. It would’ve saved you the trouble of whoring yourself out for it.” And he pulls out his fingers from inside and just kisses your temple with all this sweet smile plastered on his face.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

#hawt

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bellatrixscurls · 9 days ago

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dom!art still taking the strap like a p★rnstar.

cw (18+) : teasing dom!art, eager-to-please sub!reader, brief fingering, choking, pegging, spitting in mouth, handjob, general filth

art pushes his face into the mattress as your soft, willing tongue laps slickly over his hole from behind, his left hand reaching back to grab your shoulder and squeeze it with everything he’s got. he rocks his hips against your mouth and keens when he feels you whimper into his flesh.

“f-fuuuck,” he shudders, “you’re so greedy for me, aren’t you? do i taste good?”

all you can do is nod, too immersed in his taste and his smell and his dirty language. he laughs lowly in response and then hisses like he’s in pain—even if he’s feeling quite the opposite—when you begin to ease two fingers into his tight entrance without permission. you usually have to ask in order to touch any part of him, as he likes the sense of control and you like knowing that your movements are dependent on his say-so, but it just feels like the right moment to open him up. (he’d been prepped perfectly already with just your licking, his cock hard and hanging heavily between his thighs.) he bites at the sheets, the feeling of you beginning to curl the pads of your phalanges down into his prostate punching a broken whine from his lungs. warm spit clings to his bottom lip and chin as he releases the fabric from his teeth to sit up a bit and look over his shoulder. he looks annoyed.

aroused beyond belief, but annoyed.

“that’s enough—no more, or i wont last long enough to take you. come lie down,” he pats the pillows near the top of the bed, “and tighten the harness, it’s slipping.”

you scramble to your feet, easing your touch from his core, and wipe your face with the back of your other hand before you pull at the polyester straps of the strap-on enough to keep it secure. art sprawls himself out on the bedding for just a moment; he lets you stare at his toned, flushed, willing body while you move to lay your frame down. he crawls on top and straddles you afterwards. maneuvers to smush his shaft against the faux rubbery one underneath him. he moans when he frots with it—grinding his leaking tip against yours with even, teasing thrusts. he does it until he starts to shake, his limbs locking up with an impending climax, only to pull back and begin to sit over the dildo without needing your despairing whine as a prompt. your brow pinches reflexively as you watch him devour the inches, one after the other.. he’s a pro by now, but it never ceases to amaze you. he bucks against the fullness. you wonder if it’ll bulge his tummy this time like his dick bulges yours when he’s inside. the way he starts to bounce on it interrupts your flow of thought. he’s slow at first, then ravenous with it. you’re sure that every motion is hitting that special spot in his walls.

“you look like a mess.. and i’m the one getting fucked,” he snickers between whorish groans and whimpers, his hands finding your throat and gently squeezing the sides under his palms, “you like when i ride you? yeah? just like this? fuck, shit—open your mouth—“

you do as you’re told.

is there any other way to respond to him when he gets like this?

you do what he wants you to do, or you don’t get the satisfaction of pounding him until he’s gone mushy in the head. it’s a transactional process that you’re more than willing to work through.

as soon as your jaw is slacked, your eyes fluttering, he leans in and purses his pout. a glob of his saliva is slowly spat over your tongue like sugary honey. you can hardly take it. your hands fist the sheets and you writhe beneath his weight at the viscous fluid dulling your senses. the flavor is so him, slightly minty from the gum he always chews. he taps the underside of your chin when he’s finished letting it drip. he licks his bottom lip to be rid of the remnants.

“swallow.”

and you do—you want nothing more. he sits upright again and splits himself open harder on the toy bound to your pelvis. each time he slides down it, you get to watch as his abdomen curls and his blonde locks are strewn about his forehead. he tightens his hold on your neck just enough to remind you who’s really in charge, and his length jumps in response to the resulting look that crosses your face. you mewl when it dribbles glassy precome like a river; it glosses over the throbbing vein running down the underside of it. a sound that’s a mix between a shout and a sob then escapes his chest.

“god, i’m close,” his hips stutter in their efforts, his blue eyes shielded by low lids, “c’mere—“

he takes one of his hands from your body and reaches it down to take one of yours that’s still grasping at the sheets. he guides your limp fist to wrap around the base of his cock, keening as he starts to hump it.

“touch me—jerk me off.. fuck.. that’s it—that’s good—don’t stop.. beg me to come for you..”

the heat in your gut swells and contracts in time with his noises and his movements, your hand pumping him quickly to aid his consumption of the pleasure he’s being abundantly given. your thumb swipes over his tip, you can tell it aches. he jolts forward at his sensitivity, dazedly moving both of his hands to your chest for leverage, and you dig your heels into the mattress to help you rut up forcefully into his ass. he almost screams.

you beg. you slur out a multitude of pathetic, indulgent sentences that spur on the wave of ecstasy about to crash into his figure. ‘please, come on my strap’ and ‘i’m begging you to let it all go for me, let me watch you lose it’.

it does the trick. in fact, it does it perfectly. everything snaps.

he topples forward with a sudden wail; brows furrowing and thighs quaking and back arching in an unbelievably filthy manner. his legs begin to close as the pleasure floods in and squirts from his erection in several bursts—the ropes coat your fingers and dribble over his stomach like fresh milk. still riding the toy, he digs his calloused touch into the sides of your torso, his fingers moving there in the midst of his orgasm. he hangs his head as he pants.

“fuck, i’m coming,” he gasps, growling afterward as if the sensations are causing his hair to stand on end, “keep stroking me, i’m still—yeah—god, you’re my favorite way to get off..”

you can tell that he means it, that the intoxicating effect of his release isn’t making him drunk enough to be insincere. you pump him until he seizes up and starts to hiccup. when the overstimulation becomes too much, he drops himself on top of you in a boneless heap; a sweaty, spent, satisfied mess of a man. the strap-on is still buried in his heat, and his cock is softening rapidly, but he shows no sign of moving anytime soon.

he reaches up quietly and cups your cheek, brushing his nose against it. you can feel him swallow down a jumble of words before his final ones sound out lowly and tenderly.

the way you like them, and the way he knows you need them.

“good job.. you did so well for me, thank you. give me a few, and then i’ll let you have what you really want.”

there's no need to place any bets on his integrity; you know he’ll keep his promise.

he always does.

tags : @voidsuites @asheepinfrance @fawnnpaws @artstennisracket @andyrambles @imperishablereverie @ghostgirl-22 @lexiiscorect @cha11engers @patricksbf @newrochellechallenger2019 @pittsick @blastzachilles @oncefaist

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bellatrixscurls · 10 days ago

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CRY FOR ME ᝰ.ᐟ art donaldson.

𝔀 𓏲 volleyball player!art ⸝⸝⠀ 𝓯𝓮𝓶. reader genre smut/hurt&comfort ─ 𝔀𝓬 2.8k infidelity, cheating, angst, yearning, unprotected sex, art being a munch, p in v sex, mad dirty talk ✶ lmk if i missed any!

✷ MAGS : i hate cheating tropes but i couldnt hold myself from writing pathetic art begging for forgiveness sns :(

Art Donaldson was never one to shy away from fun. He loved parties, the kind of easy chaos they brought. But this time, that attitude cost him a lot.

It had been one stupid kiss—one thoughtless, drunken moment at a party he barely remembered the details of. A friend of a friend had leaned in, and instead of pulling away, his judgment clouded by alcohol and the charged atmosphere, he’d let it happen. It was nothing, meant nothing, but the moment your tear-filled eyes met him after you found out, he knew he’d shattered something sacred.

Now, Art was a mess. Not the kind of mess people expected from the volleyball team’s most popular player. No, this was the kind of mess that followed sleepless nights and endless regrets. You had decided to forgive him after spending a few nights at a friend’s house, going back to his apartment with the promise that if he ever did that again he would never see you again. Still, you couldn’t help but feel a little bit sad everytime you pictured him kissing another girl.

That’s why a part of you—a sadistic part that you’re not proud of—secretly enjoyed how he seemed to be doing everything he could to make you happy.

The first thing he did was cut ties with the habits that had led him astray. He stopped drinking, not even glancing at a bottle when he was out with friends. Then, he stopped going to the frat parties. No more late nights with old friends, no more excuses about it being “just a party.” He even turned down invitations that he knew wouldn’t involve alcohol or temptation, choosing instead to spend his evenings at home.

Home, where you still barely acknowledged his presence.

It didn’t deter him. Art threw himself into regaining your trust with an almost frantic energy. He woke up earlier than you every morning to prepare your coffee, meticulously remembering the way you liked it. On the counter, next to the cup, he’d leave a sticky note. Each one bore a variation of the same message: I’m sorry. I love you. Sometimes he wrote long apologies, pouring out his guilt in messy handwriting, and other times he kept it simple—just three words: Please forgive me.

He cleaned the apartment from top to bottom without you asking. The laundry was always folded, the dishes were washed and put away, and even the tiniest crumbs on the counter were wiped up. He’d never been one to notice the details before, but now he obsessed over them, desperate to make your life even the smallest bit easier.

When he wasn’t tidying or cooking meals you barely touched, he tried to anticipate your needs. If you were studying until late, he’d leave a warm meal on the table. If you mentioned something offhandedly—needing a new notebook or running low on your favorite snacks—he made sure they were waiting for you the next day.

Despite everything, a part of you couldn’t help but notice his efforts. There was something almost pathetic and adorable in how he clung to the hope of your forgiveness, trying to turn your cold answers into small talk, asking how your day was and if you needed anything.

What really made you falter was one particular evening when you were at home, buried in your notes. The steady rhythm of studying had managed to keep your mind off him for a while, but then your phone buzzed with a notification. You hesitated, torn between ignoring it and indulging in your curiosity.

Your resolve wavered the moment you noticed it was from Art—and it had a photo attached. Against your better judgment, you opened it.

The image stopped you in your tracks. It was Art in his volleyball uniform, sitting on the bench after what was clearly an intense practice. His golden hair was a disheveled mess, damp from sweat. His flushed cheeks glowed faintly under the bright arena lights, and the slight sheen on his face made it clear just how hard he’d been pushing himself. But it was his expression that struck you the most—those impossibly blue eyes, wide and pleading, gazing up at the camera like a scolded puppy seeking comfort.

Art: image_01.png

Art: miss you, babe.

It made you bite your lip.

You couldn’t focus on anything else, deciding to stay up and wait for him with no plan in mind, not knowing if you’d want to talk about the state of your relationship or break up for good. You just needed to see him.

You found yourself sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the door. It wasn’t a conscious decision to wait for him; you’d just… ended up there, the quiet hope of seeing him again anchoring you in place. When the faint sound of his key in the lock finally broke the silence, your heart leapt. The door creaked open, and there he was—still in his hockey gear, his hair a little damp from the night air. He stepped inside softly, clearly trying not to make noise.

He thought you’d be asleep.

The moment he turned and saw you sitting on the couch, his whole demeanor changed. His eyes widened slightly in surprise, and then they softened, that familiar warmth slipping back into his expression.

“You’re awake?” he asked, his voice gentle, almost hesitant, as he shut the door behind him.

“I wanted to see you,” you admitted, your tone softer than you expected.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The tension that had built between you over the past weeks hung in the air, but it felt different now—fragile but not unbreakable.

Art took a tentative step closer, then another, until he was standing right in front of you. “I’ve missed you,” he said quietly, his voice raw with sincerity.

You looked up at him, the frustration and hurt you’d been holding onto starting to unravel. There was something about the way he stood there, still slightly flushed from practice, his eyes brimming with hope and vulnerability, that made it impossible to keep the wall around your heart intact.

“I missed you too,” you whispered, and the words were all he needed.

He sank down onto the couch beside you, his movements careful, as if afraid to push too far. But when you didn’t pull away, when you let him sit close enough for his knee to brush against yours, his hand reached out, tentative but firm, to take yours.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “For everything. I’ve been trying so hard to make it right, but—”

You cut him off by leaning into him, resting your head against his shoulder. It wasn’t an outright forgiveness, but it was enough for now. His arms came around you, tentative at first, then tighter when he realized you weren’t pulling away. For the first time in weeks, Art felt like he could breathe again. The weight of guilt that had been crushing him lifted just slightly, replaced by the warmth of your presence. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, his silent promise to do better, to never hurt you again.

You turn your body in his direction, the back of his fingers caressed your cheek softly as if he’s trying not to break you. You see his eyes lowering and staring at your lips, he takes a deep breath before opening his mouth.

“Can I kiss you?”

You'd be lying if you said you didn't miss him, especially now looking at him, with the black compression shirt that he usually wears under his uniform so tight to his body you can see his pecs under it. Maybe spending some time apart did something good. You can't take your eyes away from the way he waits for your response with wide blue eyes and parted mouth, his hand now gripping your chin softly.

"Yes, Art, you can kiss me."

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, almost shy—so unlike the confident, teasing man you were used to. His lips brushed against yours gently, testing the waters, but the moment you leaned into him, your hand slipping to rest on his chest, it was as though the dam broke.

His other hand came up to cradle your face, his fingers threading into your hair as he deepened the kiss. The black compression shirt he wore was warm under your palm, his steady heartbeat thrumming against your touch. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he was holding himself back, afraid to push too far too quickly.

But you didn’t want restraint—not now, not with him. You needed to feel he was yours. Only yours.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as his lips moved against yours with more urgency. His hand slid from your chin to your jaw, then down to your neck, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin in a way that sent shivers down your spine. He kissed you like he was trying to pour every ounce of his regret, his longing, and his love into the moment, and for the first time in weeks, you let yourself feel it.

Art pushes you gently so you're lying on the couch, his broad form towering over you as his hands grab your eyes, fingers deepening into your plump skin.

“Missed my pretty girl so fuckin’ bad,” he whispers against your neck. “You missed me, baby?”

You nod, “Yes, Art, so bad.”

He seems happy with your response, licking his lips before pressing his thigh against your clothed core. It doesn’t feel awkward, not even after everything that led to your temporary separation. Being with Art feels like stepping into something both unfamiliar and deeply familiar all at once—like discovering something new yet instinctively knowing every part of it.

You watch as he tugs his shirt up, tossing it aside so he can press himself against your body and feel your hands caressing his bare abdomen. Art gently pulls your top over your head, immediately pressing his face against your chest, desperately worshipping your breasts with his hands and mouth, lips wrapping around your nipple as his teeth softly graze against it to make you squirm.

He sucks on your chest with an almost sadistic attention, watching the purple-ish marks bloom in your skin until he's satisfied enough to trail the kisses down to your stomach.

"Want me to eat you out, baby?" he asks, piercing eyes looking up at your face, smirking when you spread your legs further so he can comfortably place himself between them. "Gonna eat this pussy so fuckin' good, baby, you just gotta let me, hum?"

Your toes curl at his furrowed brows and parted lips, like he's about to explode just from the possibility of fucking you.

"Yeah, do it, please,."

You see the way his eyes light up at your response, his fingers quickly find their way to your shorts and underwear, pulling them down together with one fast tug.

You've known Art long enough to know he's never one to shy away from intimacy, but watching him pressing his nose against your pussy and french kissing your clit was now definitely on the list of the hottest things he’s ever done. His warm tongue gave a good lick all over your cunt, coating the soft skin with his saliva so he can pay more attention to your clit. You feel the pad of his fingers spreading your labia, making it easier for him to close his lips around the and suck on it deliciously slowly.

“Please, please, please, oh my God!” Your hands desperately grab his hair, fingers gently tugging the white strands.

Art mewled against your pussy, moaning at how warm and wet you felt against his mouth. He would never get tired of this; just holding you down and burying his face into your cunt, feeling your scent sticking to his skin as he rubs his face against you, curiously discovering every little spot inside you that made you cry out as he inserts one finger inside you.

“Fuck, I could do this forever, pretty girl,” he lifts his head from your pussy, eyes sparkling at how well you take his fingers as he presses another one into you. Your eyes roll when his knuckles brush against your sweet spot, he scissors his digits with an almost scary expertise, as if he knows exactly what you wanted and how you wanted. “That’s it, baby, gonna cum on my fingers? Fuck, you look so good I wanna taste it when you cum.”

“A-Art, don’t stop!” you plead as he fucks you faster with his fingers, thumb rubbing circles against your swollen clit.

“Not gonna stop, angel, not until you’re crying for me.”

You clench hard around his digits, feeling the heat growing inside your tummy as he thrusts his fingers a few more times until you cum, a broken moan escaping your lips, legs shaking, your cunt fluttering as it coats his fingers with your creamy arousal. Art curses under his breath and you can’t help but whine when he presses his face against your pussy again, cheeks and lips smeared with your juices. You watch him taking his fingers out of you and putting them inside his mouth, he hums in pleasure like he’s about to devour you.

Art always looks ethereal like that.

Sweaty glistening skin, chest breathing heavily and face stained with your own cum. And before you can blink he's all over you again, pushing your legs to your chest and freeing his hard cock from his sweatpants, not caring to take them off completely, not when you're all whiny and spread open in front of him. He holds his heavy shaft in his hand, rubbing the pink tip against your clit and coating it with your juices.

"Want this, sweetheart?" he asks, prodding your wet entrance with his cock which makes you roll your hips pathetically. "This dick is all yours, baby. How about you put it inside your little pussy, hum?"

Your face burns hot but you nod anyways, reaching for his cock and wrapping your palm around it, Art watches with hungry eyes while you line it up with entrance, rubbing it against your pussy for a few seconds before sliding it inside.

"Fuck," you bite your lip, just as entranced by the scene as your boyfriend.

"You always take me so well, baby. The best fucking pussy in the whole world." He teases, thrusting his hips forward and watching his own cock slipping in with ease.

Your eyes roll at the stretch, feeling your walls fluttering around his cock as he pushes your knees to your chest, putting you in his favorite position to fuck you. This way he can watch your pretty eyes watering as he fucks you against the couch, watch the way your pussy swallow his dick and rub your puffy clit with his thumb. It hits so deep inside of you that you swear you see stars every time you blink, all you see is Art's incessant thrusts against you as he supports himself on his arm on the side of your head.

"Fuck, cum on my cock, baby," he breathes, rubbing your clit vigoursly as he pounds with more strength, feeling his own orgasm getting closer with how warm and tight you feel around him, tears brinkling at the corner of his eyes. “Cum for me, baby, please? Be my good girl and cum on my dick, angel. Gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good, fuck.” It's borderline madness, Art’s hips faltering as he curses, hard and paused thrusts watching you fall apart in front of his eyes and he can only think about how much he missed you. “Cum for me, baby, c’mon, pretty girl.”

Your body obeys him, following a hoarse groan that falls from his lips, nails sinking in his broad shoulders. He thrusts a few more times before cumming as well, locking his hips against yours as to keep his seed deep inside you, the warm liquid filling your insides. You can only try to catch your breath as Art holds you tightly against him, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“I love you so fuckin’ much,” he mutters with a shaky voice and you feel his tears dripping on your skin.

Your arms wrap around him, kissing the top of his head.

For the first time in what felt like forever, things felt right again. And as Art pulled you closer, his nose brushing against your temple, you couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, you could find your way back to each other.

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bellatrixscurls · 12 days ago

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his hair. his smile. his arms. EVERYTHING about him is so yummy yummy!!

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bellatrixscurls · 12 days ago

Text

One More Time

notes: art donaldson x fem!reader, reader has a vagina, daddydom!art donaldson, reader and art are in a new relationship, oral (reader receiving), p in v, spit, art gets mean(ish), teasing, creampie, semi-public sex, size kink, dirty talk

word count: 1.3k

warnings: MATURE EXPLICIT CONTENT, 18+ ONLY

With the gloomy, velveteen night back-splashing your silhouette, you share stares with Art. The cluster of brown in the blue of his eyes is barely perceptible. You love looking at them, and you’re not intimidated by them or his staring. At least not anymore. You’ve been dating for long enough to get comfortable and confident in your dynamic. You didn’t really know much about doms and subs before this relationship but the two of you found an easy rhythm, a back-and-forth of building up and easing tension. You like to test then obey, he likes to tease and correct. The rhythm often paralleled his tennis games, wins and losses usually meant him taking control either way. Always.

He slouches in his beach chair, hair wind-tossed and tinted with the moon, flicks his cigarette gently, contemplates your statement.

“No coming back to my room then?”

You roll your eyes.

“I said I’m going to sleep. You should too. You have a match tomorrow.”

He leans forward, gesturing the cigarette towards you.

“I need something from you first.”

You arch a brow, reposition yourself on the rock you’ve been perching on, feigning annoyance.

“Oh boy, let’s hear it”

A corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk and he leans back again, outs his cigarette and shifts his hips slightly.

Shaking his head and chuckling, he says “Come here,” in a familiarly quiet, commanding tone.

Sensing the shift, your stomach flops.

Gathering your senses, you glide as gracefully as you can manage over to him, his legs now spread to let you stand in between them.

“Such a pretty dress on a pretty girl,” he whispers as if to himself, holding the silken hem between his fingers. A touch of the sea breeze glides up underneath your dress, teases between your thighs.

“Thank you, Daddy”, you breathe, your cunt now throbbing against the silk also clothing it.

“Are you wearing panties?”

“Yeah”

“Let me see,” his eyes trailing up the length of you to look at your face.

You slowly bunch your dress around your hips, hesitating slightly at the thought of being caught on the semi-public beach. You can’t help but pulse a little more at the risk, the act of obeying him slipping you into submission.

He gazes at the midnight blue g-string, fabric pearly under the yellow moon. His nostrils flare and he licks his lips, reaching his thumb up to tap gently at your clit. The wetness gathered there makes the taps audible and you whimper. He licks at the pad of his thumb, sucks you off it.

“Fuck…such a sweet pussy, baby. Barely touched you and you’re slick for me.”

He does a firm tug and tucks the sliver of your underwear to the side, against your thigh, exposing you to the night air and his eyes. He doesn’t hesitate, pulling you even closer by your thighs and planting a kiss on your clit. You rest your hands on his broad shoulders, feeling the muscles ripple under your fingertips as you throw your head back, gasping.

He uses both thumbs to spread you, dragging his tongue from your hole to your clit, again and again. And again. Dips into your cunt and feels your walls clamp down on his tongue. Groans deep in his chest at your clenching, your sweet and soft taste. When he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking quickly, you feel yourself nearing your orgasm.

He pulls away. You whine at the sudden absence of stimulation, pouting as you jostle your feet.

“What do you say?” he demands, a warning tone in response to your brattiness.

“Can I cum please Daddy” you let out in a rush of words, aching.

“One more time baby…I didn’t quite catch that”

“Please I’d like to cum Daddy” louder now, your cheeks flaming with humiliation.

He hums and leans back in, sucking at your clit once more. His long finger ghosts the opening of your clenching hole, but never slides in. Between the teasing of his finger and the way his tongue and lips move against you, urgently, you’re gone. You moan loudly and gush into his mouth as your orgasm moves through your entire body. He holds you up easily, doesn’t stop.

“Thaaat’s a good girl. Cum for me just like that.”

His words give you a second wind and you climb a little higher, your climax intensifying. His mouth slows down but doesn’t leave you. He’s groaning and as your mind clears and you glance down, you see his large hand moving over the spot in his jeans holding his massive erection. He releases his hold on you once he knows you can stand on your own and unzips his pants, pulling his cock out. It’s long and thick, with veins running along the sides, one major vein running against the underside connecting to his balls. The tip is flushed pink and prominent. His thumb swipes at the precum at his tip and his hips buck up into his own touch.

“Come sit on Daddy’s cock, angel” he says, stroking himself languidly.

You straddle him in the chair and he lines his cock up with your entrance. As you move to slide down his length, he holds you immobile for a moment, teasing his tip from your hole to your clit.

“You want it so bad, don’t you? But I thought you wanted to go to sleep? What happened?” he mocks, faux pouting in response to your whines, still running his cock along your slit.

“I’m not sleepy anymore” you say ashamedly

He bellows out a laugh, so at ease as if his insistent erection weren’t pressed right where you wanted it most.

“Ok baby” he says simply, pulling you halfway down his cock. You moan wantonly, gripping his shaft with your cunt. His eyes flutter slightly at the sensation and he grips the back of your head to pull you into a kiss. His tongue moves to open your mouth up, dancing against yours. He bites at your bottom lip, sucking it towards him before releasing it. And then he puts his hands on your hips to pull you down the remainder of his length.

“Please” is all you can gasp out, as the fullness knocks the air out of you. He smirks at your helplessness, grinding his hips up to meet yours. The sounds of his thrusts and your wetness turn you on even more and you bear down to meet his grinding.

“That’s it. Grind on my cock and make me cum”

You quicken your pace and lean in for more of his kiss. Gripping your jaw as he plants his feet in the sand, he makes you look right at him.

“Tongue out”

You loll your tongue out, cheeks still squished together in the huge grip of his hand. His eyes darken as he spits on your tongue. You feel his cock flex in your cunt at the sight. You know better than to move, waiting for his next command. He’s in no rush, continuing to pound into you, his eyes rolling to the back of his head for just a moment at the feeling of your cunt tightening even more. When his eyes refocus he lets go of your jaw, both hands gripping your hips once more, hard enough to leave bruises.

“Swallow” he grunts lowly.

You swallow and stick your tongue back out to show him. He nods without saying anything, his pace becoming more erratic. His hips buck once, twice, before you feel the pump of cum up against your cervix. His groan is long and drawn out as his pretty face scrunches with the force of his orgasm. His breath slows as his hips still against you. He fans a hand across your cheek, thumb pulling gently at your lips.

“What do you say?”

“Thank you Daddy”

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bellatrixscurls · 12 days ago

Note

we need another part to stanford!art x camgirl!reader :)))

i would do whatever you wanted, we don’t have to leave the apartment!

stanford! art x camgirl! reader part two (or the one where they make a movie)

tw for smut, being on camera, kinda dom/sub vibes, use of pet names (baby, angel, princess) and slight degradation (use of whore/slut briefly) and use of daddy only twice!!!. this is so horny idk. size kink

art was strangely nervous for someone who’d already seen you naked countless times, his hands shaking as he buttoned up his shirt. he checked his appearance six times in the mirror before leaving his dorm, then once more for good measure in the mirror of his jeep. he’d insisted on being a gentleman, walking to your door with a bouquet of tulips in his hand, his heart in his throat as he knocked. you opened it moments later, haphazardly sliding an earring into your ear, smiling up at him like he wasn’t about to faint at your doorstep. his breath caught. you were a vision in a short white dress and black boots just high enough to bring you a hair closer to eye level. “hi,” you grinned, eyes falling to the flowers, “for me?” “of course,” he forced himself to focus, “tulips are your favorite, right? i remember your parents brought some to a match once,” your eyes softened, a pout on your lips, “oh, art. you’re so sweet,” you took them, then wrapped one hand around his forearm, pulling him just inside, “stay here, i’ll go put them in a vase. then i’m ready,” he obeyed, watching you go, glancing around your dorm curiously. it was so you- photos of you and your family and teammates littering the walls, small trinkets on bookcases, a special shelf just for your racket bag to hang from. his chest warmed, suddenly aching at the very thought of being with you. you returned moments later, satisfied, “ready?” “yeah, ready,” he nodded, his hand on the small of your back as he led you back down to his jeep. your perfume filled his senses, rendered him weak as he drove, his fingers tapping absentmindedly on the steering wheel.

he was everything his grandmother had taught him to be at dinner; patient, doting, attentive, kind. he held the door, pulled out your chair, let you order first. the two of you talked the entire date, laughing between sips of your drinks, sharing stories like you’d known each other all your lives. finally, he worked up some courage, tentative and careful. “so, why’d you start streaming?” you took the question in stride like you’d been expecting it all evening. “my scholarship pays for school and my dorm, but anything extra i want, it’s out of pocket,” you told him, seeming genuinely at ease, “i use the tips and things to pay for any extra tennis gear, or just shopping trips. my parents don’t really make enough to send me money, and i don’t want them to worry,” “why not just get a job off campus?” he hoped it didn’t come across insensitive, “i mean, if it’s just the money?” “i can film for an hour and make $300,” you shrugged, stirring your drink absentmindedly, “i know some people think it’s demeaning, but i don’t really see it that way. if people are going to objectify me regardless, why not capitalize off of it?” he nodded, mulling your words over carefully. “yeah, that makes sense,” he met your eyes across the table, “i’m sorry you have to deal with that, though,”

you waved a dismissive hand, smiling, “promise it’s fine, art. i know it’s not good, but i’m used to it for the most part. desensitized, i guess,” “do you feel like this gives you the power back?” he asked, genuinely curious, “like you’re reclaiming yourself?” you looked up at that, one brow raised in surprise, “yeah, actually. that’s a big part of it,” he hesitated before slowly placing his hand on yours across the table, playing with the bracelets on your wrist, “i’ll never make you feel like i’m taking that away from you,” he murmured, “i think you’re incredible. and what you’re doing, too. you shouldn’t ever feel ashamed,” you shifted in your seat, face warm, “let’s get out of here, yeah?” he picked up the bill like he’d done it a thousand times, swiped a silver amex with the easy air of a man who knew he’d have expendable income of his own someday. when you got back to his jeep, he hovered on your side of the car, leaned against the door as he brushed hair from your face, “you look unbelievably beautiful tonight,”

you kissed him, finally, standing on your tiptoes and pulling him down. his hands found your waist, skin warm through your dress as he kissed you slow and steady, smiling against your lips like he was lovedrunk, like he hadn’t already been inside of you days prior. “stream with me tonight,” you mumbled against his mouth, pulling away just enough, “would you like that?” he’d known it was coming, knew what he was agreeing to the very first time, but still took in a surprised breath. “tonight?” “if you’re in the mood,” your fingers trailed down, brushing his bulge through his slacks, “it’s all up to you, art,” “oh, fuck,” he groaned, leaning into your touch despite the crowded parking lot, “yes, we can, of course,” “mm,” you hummed, satisfied, and pressed a brief kiss to his lips, “you okay to drive?” he rolled his eyes, grinning, “i’m fine, thank you very much,”

when you arrived back at your dorm, he was already grabbing you, pinning you against the door and kissing you like he was drowning. “beautiful,” he whispered, trailing his lips down your neck, “can’t wait to be inside you again, thought about it all week,” you pulled at his hair just enough to get his attention, kissing his jawline softly, “bedroom,” he nodded, like he’d been snapped back into reality, and let you lead him to your room, stumbling between kisses. “our faces have to be out of frame,” you were half breathless already, buzzing all over as he undressed you, eyes wild, “and you can’t say my name,” “mm, okay,” he pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh as he pushed you onto the bed, pulling off your heeled boots carefully, “you sound so pretty moaning my name, though,” you sucked in a breath as he pressed a kiss to your covered core, your hands flying to his hair, “god, art,” “mhm, just like that,” he licked a stripe over the cotton, groaning softly, “what can i call you then, hm? baby?” another kiss to your covered skin, “maybe angel? princess?” he bit at the skin of your thigh gently, “maybe i should call you my little whore, since you’re so desperate for it,” a mixture of surprise and arousal curled in your stomach at the sudden change in demeanor from him, “call me whatever you want,” he laughed, soft and deep, kissing your hip lightly, “and what’ll you call me, then?” you pulled him down to the bed, pulling off his shirt, “i have a couple ideas,”

you managed to pull away long enough to open your laptop, giggling as he kissed all over your hips up to your chest, his breath tickling your warm skin. “can’t believe i get to fuck you in front of all these people,” he murmured, nipping lightly at your skin, “they all get to watch, but i’m the only one that gets to have you,” you opened the cam site just as he shed his boxers, letting them drop to the floor, sucking in a breath as the cool air made contact with his flushed skin. “lay down,” you instructed, biting your bottom lip as your eyes ran over his bare skin, “i’ll make sure your face is covered,” you clicked the timer to start the stream, climbing into his lap, pressing your lips to his as you settled into his arms. he groaned against your lips as your slick cunt slid against him, his hips jerking at the contact. “you ready for me?” he asked, lips just a breath from yours, “god, this is so fucking hot,” “yeah, ready for you,” you nodded, trembling and eager. the electronic chime of tips rolling in filled your ears as he slid inside you, his hands on your ass, holding you tight. “god, fuck,” he groaned, eyes rolled back, “never gonna get used to this. best pussy in the world,” “god, m so full,” you squeezed around him, rolling your hips enough to make a show for the camera, “feel how deep you are?” you took one of his hands, placing it just below your belly button. “oh my god,” he buried his face in your chest, thrusting up into you, “such a good girl,”

you pressed your hands against his chest, pushing him back as far as you could without revealing his face as you rode him, circling your hips and eliciting desperate moans from his swollen lips. he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, watching your chest as you bounced, the hand on your ass digging his nails in just enough to have you whining. “good girl,” he panted, his eyes heavy, “yeah, there ya go,” “god, you’re so big,” you whined, moving your hands to his shoulders, exaggerating the movements of your hips, “can barely take it,” “taking it like a slut,” he slapped your ass, the skin warm beneath his touch, “you like that?” you pulsed around him, once again surprised by his dominance, “yeah, like that so much,” you leaned into his neck, careful to keep him concealed, “flip me over, face down,” he groaned quietly, nodding before slowly pulling you off his drenched cock, pressing your face into the mattress just in front of the laptop. he was on his knees behind you, his face just above the cameras sight, only displaying his shoulders and collarbones. he pulled your thighs apart, swearing underneath his breath as he spread you open, “prettiest pussy, swear to god,” he slowly trailed the tip of his cock over your clit, hissing out a breath, “you want it, baby?” you nodded, voice too muffled by the bed to be heard. “say it,” he pulled your head up just enough, “tell me how bad you want it,” “want you so bad, daddy, stuff me full,” “oh, fuck,” he groaned, low and deep, before pushing into you in one fluid motion, filling you to the hilt.

“god, even better like this,” he moaned, placing a hand on your lower back, “look so fuckin pretty, sweet girl,” you whined into the comforter as he thrusted slowly, “taking me so good, my little slut,” you rocked back against him, the sound of skin on skin filling the otherwise quiet room. he grabbed your hips, yanking you back onto his cock, pulling hoarse moans from your throat. “gonna fill you up,” he panted, thrusts getting more erratic, “is that okay?” “yes,” you said without thinking, “god, please,” “cmon, cum for daddy,” he groaned, fingers leaving your hips to circle your clit, “give it to me, baby,” you came with a shudder from the added stimulation, moaning into the drool soaked blanket, clenching around him. “yeah, good fuckin girl,” he murmured, hips jerking, “god, i’m cumming-“ he filled you, warm inside you, his thrusts slowing as he rode out his high. he slowly pulled out, leaving you with shaky legs, still face down into the mattress before you slowly pulled yourself up, covering your face as you shifted. you angled the laptop down, spreading your thighs and revealing the mess he’d left, his cum spilling out of you onto the bed. he watched with dilated pupils, heart racing. “goodnight,” you waved to the camera with two fingers, giggling before closing the stream.

an hour later, the two of you were cleaned up and half dressed, art’s fingers tracing circles onto your back as you laid on his chest. “got $700,” you said softly, looking up at him, half in awe, “can you believe that?” “you deserve it,” he pressed a kiss to your head, “put on such a pretty show,” “hey, what’s this?” you sat up, brows knit as the comment caught your attention, the user ‘pattycake’ blinking on your screen. ‘wait, is that fucking art donaldson?’ “let me see that,” he grabbed your laptop, “what the fuck?” “did you show your face?” he ran a hand through his hair, stressed, “i don’t know- i didn’t mean to, i didn’t think i did-“ “art, hey, it’s okay,” you pressed a kiss to his cheek, taking his hand, “it’ll die down, okay? it’s happened to me before too. they can’t prove it,” “god,” he laid back down, pulling you back into his side, “my first scandal and i’m not even out of fucking college,” “mm, what a bad boy,” you teased, pressing a kiss to his chest, “we’ll be alright,” “if you say so,” he yawned quietly, “i’ll worry in the morning. too tired to think now,” “mm. night, love,” “night, pretty girl,”

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bellatrixscurls · 13 days ago

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my god, she is a genius !

you all love to go on about intrusive thoughts this, intrusive thoughts that yada yada yada — but someone please explain to me, genuinely, what on earth is stopping me from sitting down and writing a regulus black fic where he canonically drowns, only to be rescued by a mermaid!ariel!reader who quite literally snow-white-kisses him back to life. he wakes up underwater, somehow able to breathe, and she whisks him away to her magical undersea kingdom

now hear me out: she gives him a fake mermaid tail (from a mermaid boutique, obviously, because i am referencing barbie: a mermaid tale with my whole chest) and he starts roaming the coral halls, disguised as a merman. they fall in love, deeply, and live their silly little aquatic fairytale together <3

and every so often, she takes him to the ocean’s surface, where he watches sirius and the others from afar, no longer a part of that world, but not bitter, just wistful. because now he has a new life, a new home, a starfish best friend named siri (because yes, he misses his brother), and a mermaid wife who saved him!

tell me what — realistically, spiritually, emotionally — is stopping me from writing this? because i see no obstacle!

#absolutely love this

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bellatrixscurls · 13 days ago

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this is what keeps me going

Close your eyes and imagine giving James Potter head and him crying cause it feels so good and all he can say is “thank you”

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bellatrixscurls · 14 days ago

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please let us never forget the billy hargrove 🙂‍↕️

big dick!billy who loves having you sit on his lap because he knows you can feel him through his pants

big dick!billy who filmed you the first time he fucked you so he’ll always have the memory of the first time he stretched you out around him. a tape of your body quivering, fat tears rolling down your cheeks, his cock stuffed in you to the hilt, and your hands clutching at the sheets on his bed.

big dick!billy who keeps a photo of your stomach in his wallet. a bulge in your belly showing how deep he’s buried in you.

big dick!billy who loves seeing you cry and pout around his cock when you can’t take him all the way down your throat. he assures you that it’s okay and wraps your hand around his base and even that barely works

big dick!billy who can’t help but chuckle as he watches you try to sink yourself down onto his dick. his seat pushed back to accompany for you on top of him, slowly sucking him in inch by inch. your face contorting as you take him in and he can’t help but bite his bottom lip to hold back his grin. he thinks it’s cute how much you struggle to take him by yourself. and he’s more than happy to help you down when you ask, after teasing you, of course. he waste no time slamming you down on his cock.

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bellatrixscurls · 15 days ago

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the tension is tensioning 🫨🫨🙂‍↕️

Dark haven

singledad mattheo riddle x reader

chapter six >> chapter seven

You woke up warm.

That alone sent panic shooting through your veins.

You sat up so fast the world spun. Your heart slammed against your ribs, and the memories of last night crashed back into your skull like a hurricane—your shaking voice, your tears, the things you told him. The things you never, ever told anyone.

You bolted to the bathroom.

Your mind screamed: *What if he hates me now? What if he thinks I’m unstable? What if he doesn’t want me around Kai anymore?*

What if he tells me to leave?

You stared at yourself in the mirror while the water ran. Pale. Eyes red. Neck flushed with anxiety.

*You ruined it.*

You showered quickly, changed into jeans and a hoodie, pulling your sleeves down until they covered your hands. You tried to act normal, calm—but the second you opened the door and found Kai’s room empty, your stomach plummeted.

The bed was made. The toys were untouched.

Panic squeezed your throat.

*Did he take Kai away from me? Did he decide I’m not good enough? Disgusting?*

You rushed down the stairs, bare feet light against the cold floor—then stopped.

Everything froze.

There they were.

In the living room, sunlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows like something holy, Mattheo sat cross-legged on the floor with Kai between his knees, both of them completely absorbed in a half-finished Lego castle. Mattheo’s long fingers moved with precision, eyebrows slightly furrowed in concentration while Kai babbled beside him, clearly giving instructions.

He wore a black fitted shirt that clung to his arms and chest, hair falling over his forehead in messy strands—his sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing as he clicked a Lego piece into place. There was something unfair about how good he looked with his son sitting in his lap, safe and *happy*.

*Hot wasn’t the word.* He looked like a god of war pretending to be a dad for the day. Except this wasn’t pretend.

He was a *really* good dad.

So good it made your chest ache.

Then Kai suddenly giggled, loud and breathless, as Mattheo leaned over and caught him from behind—arms looping around the boy’s waist just as he tried to scramble away with a Lego piece in hand.

“Oi,” Mattheo said playfully. “You stealing my bricks now?”

Kai giggled harder. “Nooo, Daddy! I just needed this one!”

“You little thief.” Mattheo grinned as he pulled him back into his lap.

You stood frozen. Watching.

Your heart cracked clean in half.

Then Kai turned his head, spotted you—and lit up like the sun.

“Y/N!” he yelled, scrambling up to his feet, stumbling a little. “Come see what me and Daddy built!”

You smiled instinctively—but didn’t move.

You didn’t trust your legs. Or your heart. Or the tears burning behind your eyes.

Kai didn’t wait. He ran to you, his tiny hand finding yours, gripping tight.

“Daddy said you were sick yesterday, that’s why you had to rest and not play with me,” he said, wide-eyed, voice sweet and sincere. “Do you feel better now?”

You nodded quickly, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I do, baby. I really do.”

You looked up.

Mattheo was already watching you.

You met his eyes—and something in your stomach *twisted*.

He didn’t look angry.

He didn’t look disgusted.

Your chest burned.

He stood, scooping Kai up in one smooth motion, his arm strong and easy under the boy’s legs. “Alright, kai,” he said, his voice low but affectionate. “Go to the art room and wait for me, yeah?”

Kai nodded and ran off, arms out like an airplane.

Then it was just the two of you.

He turned to you, eyes sharp now, unreadable.

You barely breathed. “Are you going to kick me out?”

“What?”

You wrapped your arms around yourself. “I-I’d get it if you… if you think I’m not stable enough. After what I said. After what I told you.”

His jaw clenched.

“I understand if you—”

“Shut up, Y/N.”

You blinked, stunned.

Mattheo stepped closer. Not rushed—controlled. That same dangerous calm you’d seen in him before.

He looked down at you, eyes dark.

“I don’t want to hear that shit from you again,” he said, voice low, furious and hot like gasoline over flame. “You think because you survived hell that makes you unworthy?”

You didn’t know what to say. Your heart was in your throat.

He leaned down slightly, towering over you, his hand resting just above your elbow—warm, solid.

“If anything,” he murmured, “that makes you the strongest person in this house.”

You exhaled shakily, your lips parting. The heat between you snapped tight.

“You're not going anywhere,” he said.

You stared at him, and for a second—just one brief, terrifying second—you almost let yourself believe him. Believe you weren’t just a burden. That maybe, just maybe, you were something more.

“Now go join Kai,” he added, straightening up, gaze still heavy. “He’s been waiting to paint

with you all morning.”

You nodded, barely breathing.

But as you turned to go, you swore you felt it—

His eyes still on you.

**Two days passed.**

You did everything you could to avoid Mattheo.

Not because he’d done something wrong—because he hadn’t. If anything, he’d done the opposite. He’d seen your darkest, ugliest truth and hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t judged.

And that terrified you.

So you kept your distance.

You busied yourself with Kai—arts and crafts, breakfast in the garden, bedtime stories with him clinging to your side like your very existence kept him safe. But whenever Mattheo entered the room, your heart picked up. Your hands fidgeted. You smiled too tight. And you left before the air got too thick to breathe.

But then—

“THEO!”

Kai’s delighted scream shook the stillness of the morning, and you peeked around the corner just in time to see him barreling toward Theo.

Theo caught him effortlessly. “Hey, little dragon,” he said, ruffling Kai’s hair. “Miss me?”

“You were gone *forever!*” Kai cried, flailing dramatically. “Did you bring me chocolate?”

Theo chuckled. “Of course I did. I’m not suicidal.”

You couldn’t help but laugh.

Theo looked up—and when he saw you, something sparked in his eyes. “Well, hello again y/n,” he said, sauntering over, hands in his pockets.

"Hello Theo,"

"I see you survived those two, you are like my hero now,"

You were just about to throw something back when—

“What’s so funny?”

Mattheo’s voice sliced in from behind.

You both turned.

He stood with one hand in his pocket, the other around a glass of something dark. His jaw ticked. His eyes didn’t leave Theo.

“Oh, nothing,” Theo said, too casually. “Just catching up with your girl.”

Mattheo’s brows lifted. “My what?”

Theo grinned, knowingly. “Your—”

Mattheo didn’t give him a chance.

“I’m going to Amalfi next week,” he said, cutting smoothly through the tension. “Kai’s coming.”

You blinked. “Oh, that sounds—”

“You’re coming too.”

Your mouth opened. “I—I mean if you want me to, I—”

“I wasn’t asking,” he said, his voice low and final. “Be ready.”

You stared at him, speechless. And he just stared right back before walking off, calling for Kai without another word.

"Oh this is fun can’t wait to tell Enzo , you are literally our hero y/n" Theo said smiling before leaving.

\*\*

That night, with your heart still hammering and your hands still shaking, you walked into town with your first paycheck clutched tight in your coat pocket.

It was yours.

And that meant something.

You walked into a little boutique with soft lights and floral perfume, and for the first time in your life, you didn’t second guess touching something beautiful. You picked out a simple cream dress that made your eyes shine. You tried on a pair of shoes that made you feel like you could run toward the life you always wanted. You bought a perfume with notes of vanilla and jasmine—soft, comforting, safe.

You even let yourself linger in the makeup aisle, picking out a tinted balm that shimmered like you’d never let yourself glow before.

Then, at the very last moment, you stopped by the toy section and bought a tiny stuffed dragon for Kai—one that reminded you of the bedtime stories he loved.

You walked home with a paper bag in your arms, your heart full.

That night, you sat on your bed, unboxed everything slowly.

No yelling. No guilt. No one ripping it out of your hands.

You were safe.

And as you lined the perfume and balm on your nightstand and pressed the soft fabric of your new dress to your chest.

You didn’t just heal yourself.

You hugged the child inside you who never got to dream—and told her she finally could.

***********************************

The jet hummed quietly beneath you, its leather seats soft, the windows revealing nothing but clouds and sky. Everything about the private plane screamed wealth, power, control.

But next to you sat chaos in a tiny body.

“I want to sit with Y/N!” Kai suddenly shouted, unbuckling his seatbelt with clumsy fingers.

You blinked, startled. Mattheo, who had been lazily scrolling through his phone on the other side, raised an eyebrow.

“Kai—” he started, but the little boy was already halfway across the aisle, climbing into your lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You caught him instinctively. “Careful—”

He snuggled in, grinning up at you. “This is better.”

Your heart fluttered. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, poking your cheek with his tiny finger. “Do you have a mommy?”

You froze.

The air shifted instantly. You could feel Mattheo’s gaze like a weight pressing into your skin. You didn’t dare look at him.

Kai’s question hung in the air, innocent and sharp.

“I… did,” you said carefully.

Kai nodded like he understood loss far too well for a child his age. And then—

“Can I call you mommy?”

Everything inside you stopped.

“Kai…” your voice broke a little. “I—I can’t. This is…”

“Please?” he whispered, eyes wide, lower lip trembling.

Your heart cracked open.

You glanced at Mattheo.

For the first time since you met him, he didn’t have a single word. No biting sarcasm. No cold remark. No protective glare.

Just silence. And something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

Kai hugged you, small arms tight around your neck, his warm breath on your skin.

“You’re the best mommy ever,” he whispered, resting his head on your shoulder. Within seconds, he was asleep.

You wrapped your arms around him, one hand gently stroking his hair, rocking ever so slightly, as if your body instinctively knew how to soothe a child. Your body may not have carried him, but in that moment, you were everything he needed.

Once his breathing evened out, you finally looked up.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered to Mattheo, guilt burning in your throat. “I didn’t know what to say.”

He nodded.

He didn’t speak—just nodded once, sharply. Then he stood, hands in his pockets, and walked toward the front of the plane, leaving you there with a sleeping boy and a heart that suddenly beat too loud in your chest.

\*\*

By the time the plane landed, the sun was beginning to set—casting a golden glow across the Amalfi coast.

You stepped out onto the tarmac, the breeze warm and salty, the scent of sea and lemon trees washing over you. Kai clutched your hand sleepily, eyes still heavy from the nap.

Ahead of you was the house—a modern villa carved into the cliffs, with whitewashed walls, sprawling terraces, and windows that looked out over the endless blue of the Mediterranean.

It was like something from a dream.

You weren’t sure what scared you more.

That you were in it—

Or that, slowly, part of you didn’t want to wake up.

Kai tugged at your hand, his curls bouncing as he pulled you toward the grassy patch in front of the villa, where colorful beach balls and chalk waited for his chaos.

But then he paused, turned around, and asked, “Y/N, can you swim?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Um… no, not really.”

His eyes widened. “Wait—can you ride a bike?”

“…No,” you said again, a little quieter.

His face twisted in sheer disbelief. “How? Even I can! And I’m little!”

You laughed awkwardly, but it didn’t reach your eyes. Oh… that hit. Right in the gut.

Kai’s innocent words echoed things you’d never had. No gentle father teaching you how to swim. No warm sunny afternoons learning how to ride a bike. No scraped knees and laughter and pride.

Just survival.

“Kai,” Mattheo’s voice came from behind, sharp but not unkind. You looked over and saw him watching. Watching you.

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat. “It’s okay,” you told him softly. “He’s right. I just… never got to learn.”

Kai frowned, looking between you and his dad. “Maybe Daddy should teach you too.”

You froze. Oh no. No, no, no.

Yeah, that’s *definitely* what you needed. Mattheo Riddle teaching you how to swim? His hands on your arms, guiding you, maybe slipping to your waist… or gripping the bike handles behind you, voice in your ear, breath on your neck.

You were going to combust.

You needed to stop. You needed to stop *now*.

You were almost sure your face was the color of a cherry, blazing red and hotter than the Italian sun.

Mattheo, still watching, raised a brow as if he could read your thoughts. Damn him.

“I have something important to do,” he said suddenly, turning toward the front gate. His voice dropped into that cold, no-questions tone he always used when things were serious. “You’ll have Josh and Carl in the house. More outside. Don’t go to the beach today.”

Kai pouted. “But Daddy—”

Mattheo cut him off, firm but kind. “No, buddy. Not today. You wait for me tomorrow, alright?”

Kai crossed his arms and pouted harder, but eventually nodded.

You sat with Kai in the garden afterward, drawing silly shapes in the dirt with a stick, his giggles grounding you.

But your eyes… your eyes kept drifting toward the gate. Toward the path Mattheo had disappeared down.

Where was he going?

Was it dangerous?

…Was he seeing someone?

You hated the way your chest twisted at the thought. The way a single question—*Is he on a date?*—made your stomach knot and your throat burn.

You shouldn't care.

But you did.

More than you ever meant to.

It was late.

The villa was quiet, moonlight spilling over the marble floors like silk. Kai had already gone to bed hours ago—after ten stories, three goodnight kisses, and one sleepy "I love you, Y/N" that had left a permanent mark on your heart.

But you couldn’t sleep.

You weren’t even sure why. It had nothing to do with Mattheo. Absolutely nothing. Not the way he disappeared earlier, not the unknown destination, not the way your brain kept taunting you with possibilities.

You just… couldn’t.

So, you sat in the dim living room, curled up on the couch with a book you weren’t reading, your mind buzzing far too loud to focus.

Then—you heard it.

The door clicked open.

Boots against tile.

You looked up.

Mattheo Riddle walked in, the same slow, powerful stride as always. Black shirt half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, hand running through his hair like he’d just been—

Your breath caught.

There it was.

A smear of red lipstick on his neck. Faint, but unmistakable.

And worse—your stomach twisted violently as the faint trace of perfume hit your nose. Sweet. Floral. Feminine.

Not yours.

Mattheo noticed you and paused.

"Why are you still up?" he asked, his voice low, unreadable.

You swallowed, forcing a casual shrug. "I couldn’t sleep."

Your eyes met his for a moment too long before you looked away. Before you betrayed yourself.

You tried to ignore the scent.

You tried to ignore the lipstick.

You tried not to picture him—lips on someone else's skin. Hands on someone else’s waist. Breathing someone else in.

God, you were *jealous.*

So jealous you felt like you might choke on it.

But you shoved it down with everything you had, hiding it behind a weak smile and a quieter, “Did you… have a good night?”

He raised a brow, walked closer, and you felt it again—that perfume wrapping around your senses like poison.

"Fine," he said simply.

You nodded, biting your inner cheek. Hard.

You forced yourself to breathe, to stay standing. To act like you didn’t want to claw that lipstick off his neck with your nails.

“Good,” you said, throat dry. “I’m glad you had… fun.”

He cocked his head slightly. “Did I say I had fun?”

You blinked, your lips parting, unsure what to say—how to fix that sentence without sounding more bitter than you already did.

But it was too late. He saw it. The tightness in your jaw. The way your arms folded over your chest. The storm behind your eyes you couldn’t hide.

And then he smirked. That slow, cocky, cruelly amused smirk. As if your jealousy was a fucking dessert to him. As if he wanted you like this.

“Something bothering you, love?” he asked, voice dark and sweet like poison dipped in honey.

You nearly choked on your reply.

“No,” you bit. “Why would anything be?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” He leaned on the doorway, eyeing you with that unreadable heat. “You’re looking at me like you want to rip someone’s throat out.”

You didn’t answer. You turned—too fast.

The glass in your hand slipped, hit the floor, and shattered.

“Shit—” you whispered, crouching quickly to grab the bigger pieces, hands shaking before you could stop them.

“Don’t—” he started, but it was too late.

You hissed when the sharp edge of a piece caught your palm—thin, fast, but enough to sting. A single drop of blood welled up like a secret.

Mattheo was in front of you in less than a second.

“Fucking hell, *don’t move,*” he snapped, voice thunderous, rough, *panicked.*

You froze, stunned by the sudden shift.

He crouched in front of you, grabbed your wrist too tightly, his eyes blazing like someone just lit a fuse inside his chest. His thumb brushed over the cut, jaw tightening at the sight of your blood.

“What the *fuck* were you thinking?” he growled, voice low and possessive and far too intense for a tiny cut.

You opened your mouth, but no words came.

He looked *furious.*

As if the idea of you being in pain, even a scratch, was enough to send him spiraling.

“I’m fine—”

“No, you’re not,” he snapped, lifting your hand higher to examine it. “God, do you have *any* idea what would happen if you actually got hurt?”

You blinked at him, stunned. “Mattheo, it’s just—”

“*Don’t say it’s just a scratch.*”

His voice dropped even lower.

His thumb brushed your wrist again, slower this time. Softer. And when his eyes met yours, the heat there made you forget how to breathe.

“Next time you want to throw jealousy at me, just fucking say it,” he muttered. “Don’t bleed for it.”

You stared at him, breath caught in your throat, skin burning under his touch.

He was still holding your hand like he owned it.

And maybe… he did.

He grabbed your wrist before you could take another step. Firm, commanding.

“Come here.”

You barely had time to react before he gently tugged you toward the sink. His grip wasn’t rough, but it was unshakable. His presence surrounded you—steady, inescapable.

He turned the water on, and when he held your hand beneath the stream, the sting made you flinch.

“Ow—”

“I know,” he muttered, voice low, intense. “Just hold still.”

You tried, but the water hitting the cut sent tiny shocks through your hand. He kept your wrist steady in his grasp, his other hand reaching for a cloth to clean it—slow, careful, precise. You weren’t sure why your heart was thudding louder than the water.

“I wasn’t with anyone,” he said after a long silence.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. You stared at the sink, at your bleeding pride.

“She was drunk,” he added. “She kissed me. That’s all. It wasn’t what it looked like.”

You shook your head once, quietly. “You don’t have to explain. It’s not my business.”

He paused. Let the silence thicken between you like fog.

“It’s not?” he said, his tone unreadable.

You didn’t respond.

Then—he moved.

His hand came up slowly, fingers brushing your hair back behind your ear. His touch made your skin hum.

You finally looked up at him, and that was a mistake.

Because the way his eyes locked onto yours? You swore the world stopped moving.

“I like your new dress,” he said, low and warm.

You nearly melted. “Th-thank you…”

“It fits you,” he added. “Looks like you.”

“Like me?” you repeated softly.

He nodded. “Yes.”

Then—he stepped closer. Too close.

One of his hands wrapped around your finger, deliberately slow, his thumb grazing your knuckle. His mouth dipped to your ear, his breath hot and steady.

“You smell so good, too,” he whispered.

Your eyes fluttered closed, your body frozen in fire.

“You always did,” he added, voice like sin.

You swallowed hard. “I… I brought them before we… when we came here—I mean, I—uh—I always wanted to have one of those scents that—”

You were rambling.

Panicking.

Falling.

And he knew it.

He smirked, dragging his thumb one last time across your finger before pulling back—just enough to drive you mad.

Mattheo’s voice was low, thick with something dangerous. “Go to sleep, Y/N.”

You looked up at him slowly, breath still caught in your throat.

He tilted his head, eyes dark. “Go to sleep before you start something you can’t finish.”

You wanted to say no. Wanted to tell him that you could finish it, that you wanted your lipstick on his neck instead of that stranger’s, wanted his breath tangled in yours and his hands on your skin. But all that came out was a slow nod—silent, aching.

You turned, walking back to your room, the tension clawing at your spine.

You didn’t sleep.

Tag list:

@esmerai-artemis

@pluto-9456

@dracoslovergirl

@hereticdance

@weirdowithnobeardo

@ribyourtoplip

@dorkyfangirl24

@eneywey

@chimchoom

@moonlightreader649

@wickedfury

@roryology

#i love it

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bellatrixscurls · 17 days ago

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guys part four of group activities probably won’t be up until after a very important exam that I am taking in about 2 weeks. so sorry to make you wait :( i am already halfway done with it though, so hopefully i may find some spare hours and finish it until then

#i know it’s been almost two months #i have gotten your asks. ily all

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bellatrixscurls · 17 days ago

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regulus black gives me massive “caressing your cheek while playing with your clit” vibes

#idc #he’s such a man

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bellatrixscurls · 17 days ago

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Our Brothers Are Dating… Should We?

regulus black x lupin!reader , wolfstar

synopsis: in which you and regulus are hopelessly in love, though neither of you seems capable of noticing it. your older brothers, remus and sirius, who are very much together, watch with growing amusement and agree that this kind of obliviousness must run in the family. now, with a little help from barty, they are determined to nudge the two of you in the right direction before someone loses their mind entirely.

warnings: friends in love but in denial, so much fluff, misunderstandings, silent treatment, childhood friends to lovers, idiots clearly in love, grumpy x sunshine, reg being a little shit, jealousy, regulus being possessive, scheming, very slow burn, a little angst, NSFW, smut, reg being dom, teasing, breeding kink, semi-public fucking, oral, harsh fucking, fingering, slight choking, dirty talk, overstimulation, spanking, bite marking.

w/c: 8.3k

a/n: this was 100% self indulgent! also please listen to Friends by Chase Atlantic when marked, it makes the scene way better ;)

masterlist

Remus and Sirius could never seem to stop watching you and Regulus from afar. It was an odd sight, even after all this time, to see their siblings so utterly entangled in each other’s company.

No matter how many afternoons passed like this, with you seated beside Regulus beneath the dappled shade of the courtyard trees, the picture never quite lost its strange allure.

Remus, in particular, always felt a quiet tug of wonder whenever his gaze drifted to you both.

You, his younger sister, whose heart had always seemed so open, so achingly bright.

And beside you, of all people, sat Regulus Black. Who so rarely let anyone breach the carefully built walls around him.

It still surprised Remus, no matter how many times he saw it, the way Regulus changed in your presence.

The shift was subtle but unmistakable, a softening in his expression, a quiet attentiveness in the way he leaned towards you.

His eyes, usually so cold and distant, seemed warmer when they lingered on your face. He spoke more easily with you than with anyone else, his clipped words touched with something that almost resembled tenderness.

And you, in turn, seemed utterly at ease beside him. Where others might have been intimidated by his silence, his sharp glances and sharper tongue, you only smiled, filling the spaces between his words with your own easy warmth.

And though it had once seemed strange to Remus, this pairing, he could no longer imagine it otherwise.

Sirius, of course, noticed it all as well. He often watched the two of you with a wide grin, elbowing Remus with a conspiratorial glint in his eyes. "Look at them," he would murmur, voice low with amusement.

"So bloody obvious and yet so impossibly dense."

And Remus could only shake his head, a fond exasperation curling in his chest. For there was no denying it anymore. You and Regulus were in love.

Anyone with eyes could see it, could feel the invisible thread that bound you together, taut and shimmering with all that was left unsaid.

Yet somehow, you both remained oblivious to the truth of it. Friends, you called yourselves, though the word seemed a poor fit for what passed between you.

Friends did not linger in each other’s gaze quite so long.

Friends did not find excuses to brush fingers, to sit a little too close beneath the wide sky.

Friends did not look at each other the way you did, as though the world had narrowed to a single point and everything else had faded away.

It was almost maddening to watch. And yet, neither Sirius nor Remus could bring themselves to look away.

They had been here themselves, after all. They knew too well how love could creep in slowly, unnoticed, until it filled every corner of the heart.

They knew how blind one could be to one’s own feelings, how fear and uncertainty could bind the tongue and still the heart.

It ran in the family, perhaps. This stubborn obliviousness. This tendency to circle around love instead of stepping boldly into it.

So they watched. From beneath the archway, from across the courtyard, from the windows of the library. And with every glance they exchanged, with every sigh and shake of the head, a quiet resolve began to take root between them.

Because someone had to do something. Someone had to help you both see what was already written so clearly in every glance, every smile, every lingering touch.

And really, who better to take matters into their own hands than two Marauders, hopelessly in love themselves, determined to see their siblings find the same happiness?

Remus and Sirius shared a look. Then their eyes shifted to Barty, lounging nearby with that infuriatingly charming grin.

They didn’t say anything.

The idea came instantly. The execution would be easy. And with Barty involved, jealousy was practically guaranteed.

It had almost become a habit now, the way your afternoons led you here. The quiet comfort of the library’s farthest corner, a sun-drenched alcove of old wood and older books, always somehow waiting for the two of you.

No one really disturbed this place, and fewer still disturbed the pair of you when you were here, heads bent close over parchment and ink.

You sat with your chin propped in one palm, quill twirling idly between your fingers, the open pages of an Arithmancy text long abandoned in favor of quieter conversation.

Regulus sat across from you, sharp-boned and poised as ever, though the usual hard set of his mouth was softened now.

His hand moved absently, the tip of his quill tracing light, meaningless shapes in the margin of his notes. His gaze, though, was not on his work.

It was on you.

"Your hair is falling into your eyes again," he murmured, voice low and even, with a quiet patience that few others ever heard from him.

You blinked up at him, a little smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

"Is it? Oh." You pushed the strands back clumsily with your fingers, only for them to tumble forward once more a moment later.

And then, without another word, Regulus reached across the table, slow and careful, brushing the stray locks gently behind your ear.

His fingers lingered for the briefest moment against your temple, the lightest of touches, and when he drew his hand back, something unreadable flickered in his eyes.

You smiled again, bright and unbothered, your voice a soft lilt that always seemed to wind beneath his defenses. "Thank you, Reggie!"

He only gave a faint incline of his head, as though it were nothing, though you noticed the way he lowered his gaze to his notes with a sudden, almost studious focus.

"You know," you said after a moment, voice bright with amusement, "you would probably get more studying done if you stopped doodling in the margins."

He gave a soft huff of breath, almost a laugh. "And you would probably get more studying done if you stopped daydreaming so much."

You gasped in mock outrage. "Rude."

"Entirely true," he replied smoothly, though there was a faint, fond curve to his mouth now.

Before you could retort, the distant thud of boots echoed through the stacks, followed by the low murmur of familiar voices.

"Oi, there you are," came Sirius’s voice, louder now as he rounded the shelves, Remus close behind him.

Regulus straightened in an instant, the soft warmth you had coaxed from him retreating as though a door had been quietly closed.

Remus and Sirius were an easy, familiar sight together. Remus with his gentle, thoughtful gaze, always steady, and Sirius with all his wild charm, half a grin playing at his mouth as he strode toward your table.

Remus’s eyes softened when they met yours. "We were looking for you," he said with quiet fondness, reaching to ruffle your hair with one large, calloused hand.

"You were supposed to meet us after quidditch."

You laughed, swatting at him playfully. "I forgot."

"She forgets everything," Sirius said cheerfully, flopping into the empty seat beside you, far too comfortable.

"Probably forgot we even existed. Here she is, holed up with my charming little brother, plotting who knows what."

Regulus gave him a look of cool indifference. "If we were plotting, you would not know about it."

"See what I mean," Sirius grinned, nudging you with his elbow. "Utter delight, that one."

You giggled softly, glancing between them. "Honestly, I am just trying to get through potions."

Remus settled beside Sirius, leaning comfortably into his side, fingers twining absently with his.

Sirius nudged you again. "And you dragged poor Reg into it with you? Cruel."

"I did not drag him," you said with mock primness, smiling at Regulus, who only inclined his head slightly, gaze unreadable once more. "He came willingly."

"I can hardly believe that," Sirius teased, though there was no real bite to his words. If anything, a note of genuine curiosity threaded through them.

Even now, after all these years, he still marveled quietly at the strange friendship that had grown between you and his brother.

Regulus remained silent, though something faint touched his eyes when he glanced your way.

Remus watched it all with a thoughtful expression, his gaze lingering on Regulus a moment longer than usual.

There was a quiet understanding in his eyes, an old awareness that never quite left him. He had always seen it, the way Regulus shifted when he was near you, the way your presence seemed to gentle him.

But as always, you seemed blissfully unaware of it.

And Sirius, ever impatient, could hardly help himself.

"You know," he began, voice bright with mischief, "we were just saying how you two spend more time together than anyone else these days. Should we be worried? Or are we finally going to admit that this is something more than just... studying?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "It is friendship, Sirius. Nothing more."

Regulus, for his part, said nothing at all, though a faint tension had crept into his shoulders.

Remus only smiled softly, squeezing Sirius’s hand in silent warning. Not too much, not yet. They would need more careful coaxing than that.

But as the four of you sat there in that sunlit corner of the library, conversation weaving around old books and quiet glances, the truth hung between you like the dust in the air. Obvious to anyone who cared to look.

And though you and Regulus remained blind to it still, there was a quiet certainty in Remus’s heart as he glanced at his sister, then at the boy who watched her when she was not looking.

It was only a matter of time.

“You know,” Sirius was saying, tone far too casual to be innocent, “if you keep sitting here in the dark with Regulus all day, you are going to forget how to have any fun.”

You looked up from your book, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “This is fun,” you replied lightly, voice warm with amusement. “Some of us do enjoy quiet, you know. And Regulus is the most fun person ever!”

“Fun?” Sirius repeated, making a face like he’d just bitten into something sour. “Right. Loads of laughs.”

Love really was blind. Because if Sirius had to name the most boring person in the entire castle, it would be his own brother—without hesitation.

Regulus was practically allergic to fun. The human embodiment of a sigh.

“You used to be so bright and cheerful, too. What have you done to her, Reggie?”

Regulus, who had been steadily ignoring the entire exchange in favor of a well-worn copy of Advanced Potions, turned a single cool glance toward his brother.

“If anything, she has done something to me,” he said smoothly.

“And she is perfectly capable of deciding what she enjoys.”

The words were calm, but there was something softer beneath them, something that made Remus glance sidelong at Sirius with the faintest of knowing smiles.

Regulus’s fingers tapped lightly against the spine of his book, eyes lowered again. You could see it — the way his guard was pulling back up around him, piece by piece.

You bit the inside of your cheek, a soft breath caught behind your ribs.

Enough of this.

“Well,” you said brightly, pushing your chair back with a soft scrape against the floor, “that is quite enough for one afternoon.”

Before either of them could reply, you reached out and caught Regulus gently by the sleeve of his robe, fingers curling lightly around the fabric.

“Come on, Reggie,” you said, voice soft but sure. “We will go somewhere quieter.”

Regulus looked up at you, something unspoken flickering in his gaze — and then he nodded, closing his book with a quiet snap and rising smoothly to his feet beside you.

Sirius blinked, half a grin still lingering on his mouth. “Oh? Running off with her now, are you?”

You stifled a laugh, giving a small shake of your head. “I will see you both later,” you said lightly, offering a smile first to Sirius, then to Remus, who only returned it with a soft, knowing warmth that lingered long after you had turned away.

And with that, your hand still brushing lightly against Regulus’s sleeve, you led him from the sun-dappled corner, the faint sound of Sirius’s teasing voice echoing behind you, growing fainter with each step.

Your steps are light, weaving easily through the scattered leaves and roots as you lead Regulus away from the library.

He follows you with that quiet steadiness of his, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking to you now and again. He never needs to ask where you are going. You both already know.

And soon, there it is—your favorite tree. Ancient and wide, its branches reaching high into the pale blue sky, its roots curling like lazy serpents across the earth.

Without a word, Regulus leans his back to the trunk and exhales softly, lids fluttering closed for a moment as if to savor the calm.

You smile at him, bright and easy, and with no hesitation at all, you fold your legs beneath you and settle onto the grass beside him.

Then, slower, gentler, you ease your head into his lap, the crown of it resting against the fine wool of his robes. You feel him still beneath you, feel the way his breath catches and then softens.

And when you tilt your gaze up, you catch the barest curve of his lips, an almost-smile, the kind he seems to keep only for you.

For a little while, neither of you speak. The rustle of the leaves above is enough, the warmth of the afternoon sun, the quiet sound of students far off in the distance.

And the steady presence of him. You let it fill you, content, before you finally break the silence in that soft, lilting tone of yours.

“What do you think we will do once this year is over?” you ask lightly, tracing idle shapes into the fabric of his robes.

Regulus shifts a little beneath you, gaze dropping to watch your fingers move. He hums low in his throat. “You will go to the Potters’, most likely.”

“And you?” You tilt your head, eyes bright.

There is a pause. Then, quietly, he says, “I will return to Grimmauld.”

You frown, a small crease between your brows. “No, you will not.”

Regulus arches a brow at you, the faintest amusement in his voice. “And why is that?”

“Because I won’t let you.” You smile up at him now, soft and sure.

“I will not leave you there. You will come with me. With Sirius, Remus, James, and Lily. We will all go to the Potters’ for the summer, and you will be there too. I will not allow you to go back to that house.”

There is a long moment where he says nothing. You watch him, patient.

You know him well enough not to push too quickly. And after a moment, his gaze drops again to meet yours.

“It is not so simple, amour” he murmurs.

“It is.” You reach up now, fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw with a tenderness that makes something in him go still.

“Because you are my favorite person, Regulus. And I refuse to be parted from my favorite person. Especially not for a whole summer.”

That nearly undoes him. He breathes in, careful and slow.

His fingers twitch faintly where they rest beside you on the grass, as if he is fighting the urge to reach for you, to tangle his hands in your hair.

“I… cannot promise,” he says at last, voice low.

“Then I will promise for you,” you say, your smile soft and your eyes bright.

“You will come, I will make sure of it, Sirius will too, and Remus. You are welcome, none of us want you to be alone.”

He lets out a breath. His gaze softens more than he means it to. And though he does not say yes, you can feel the edges of his resistance slipping.

“You are impossible,” he murmurs.

The silence deepens, heavy and fragile, until a familiar voice finally breaks through.

“Well, well,” Barty drawled, voice low and smooth as he dropped onto the grass beside you without invitation.

“Didn’t think I’d find such excellent company out here!”

You looked up, raising a brow. “You always say that. Makes it hard to believe you’re ever surprised.”

Barty’s mouth curved into something softer than a smirk. “Maybe I’m just easily impressed.” He plucked a stray leaf from your shoulder, his fingers brushing just a little longer than necessary.

“Though I think we both know that isn’t true.”

You gave a quiet laugh, brushing your hair behind your ear. “You’re impossible.”

“Possibly,” he said, eyes gleaming. “But I’m told I’m charming enough to get away with it.”

Regulus didn’t move at first. Then slowly, he shifted, sitting straighter, though his gaze remained firmly ahead. His face had gone carefully blank—expression composed, impassive.

But his lips were pressed tight and his brows faintly drawn, like he was holding something steady just beneath the surface.

Barty turned back to you. “You always this lovely in the morning, or is this just luck?”

“You’re laying it on thick today, Junior,” you said lightly, flipping the page in your book.

“Only for you.”

Regulus’s fingers flexed once at his side, then stilled. His posture was perfect. His expression hadn’t changed. He looked almost bored, if not for the edge behind his eyes.

Barty leaned back on his elbows, turning his face toward the sky. “You’d think being this pretty would come with a warning.”

You smiled, amused, but didn’t reply.

For the first time, Regulus turned his head.

His voice, when it came, was quiet and clipped. “Some of us were enjoying the quiet.”

Barty glanced over at him, then back to you. “Wasn’t trying to interrupt. Just couldn’t resist the view.”

Regulus’s jaw shifted, subtle and sharp, and though he didn’t respond, his eyes didn’t leave Barty for a long moment.

Barty just grinned. “Anyway,” he said, standing and brushing his trousers off.

“Don’t let me keep you. I’ll see you around, sweetheart.”

He winked before turning, and Regulus tracked his retreat with a gaze cold enough to freeze wind.

You, still thumbing through your book, didn’t seem to notice.

Regulus looked back at you, his features schooled again into that same unreadable calm. But his fingers, curled in the grass, didn’t unclench.

You give him a playful swat to the arm. “Go on then, let us have our peace.”

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The quiet settles again, but it feels different now—less peaceful, more strained.

You shift slightly, resting your head back on Regulus’s lap, eyes turning upward as if the sky might offer some explanation.

He’s unusually still beneath you.

You glance up, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the way his lips are pressed together, the faint crease between his brows. That unreadable look he gets when he’s thinking too much, or trying too hard not to feel something.

Something’s off.

You tilt your head, voice soft. “You alright?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, it’s clipped. “Fine.”

You blink. “You don’t sound fine.”

Regulus exhales, low and barely audible. His eyes stay on some far-off point, cold and focused like they’ve locked onto a problem only he can see.

“I don’t get it,” you say, quieter now, more to yourself than to him.

“One minute you’re fine, and then Barty shows up, and you shut down like someone flipped a switch.” You sit up a little, resting your weight on your elbows, still watching him.

“What did he even say that got under your skin?” you ask, genuinely puzzled. “He was just being Barty.”

Regulus’s gaze flicks down to you then, briefly. His expression is unreadable. You can’t tell if he’s annoyed or tired or just done with the conversation.

“I said I’m fine,” he mutters.

You hesitate, then nod, letting the silence settle again even though it gnaws at your thoughts. You lie back against him, but it doesn’t feel the same now.

The rest of the day blurs by in a way that days sometimes do when your mind is a little elsewhere, when the air feels lighter and you are quietly waiting for something.

The hours of lessons seem to bleed into one another.

You and Regulus had not shared classes today. Not until later. And already, you were counting down until you could meet him again, like you always do.

The two of you had made quiet plans for dinner, you would meet by the entrance hall, as always.

But now, with the last lesson fading to a close, you are already making your way down one of the quieter corridors.

You turn the final corner, steps light and familiar as your eyes scan the corridor ahead.

You’re expecting to see Regulus leaning against the archway like he usually does, arms crossed, half-annoyed at being early. But the space is empty.

You slow slightly, glancing around.

“Looking for someone?” a voice purrs beside you.

You blink, startled, and turn to find Barty, again, falling into step beside you, hands in his pockets and a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Oh,” you say, letting out a small laugh. “Just Regulus.”

“Of course,” he says lightly. “You two are practically stitched together.”

You smile without thinking. “He’s usually here by now.”

Barty tilts his head, studying you. “I could keep you company until he shows.”

You nod, kind. “That’s sweet of you.”

“So,” he says, casually sliding a bit closer, “what are you doing tomorrow afternoon?”

You blink. “Tomorrow?”

“Mm,” he hums. “Thought maybe you and I could go into Hogsmeade. Get something warm and take a walk. Unless you’ve sworn some blood oath to Regulus to never leave his side.”

You laugh again, still not entirely catching on. “Oh—I mean, I’ve got a few things to do. Some studying and a bit of tutoring.”

Barty leans in slightly, voice warm and teasing. “Surely someone like you can make time for something fun.”

You hesitate, blinking at him. “I—well, I suppose maybe. But—”

“There you are.”

The words cut clean and cold through the air.

You turn.

Regulus is standing just behind you, jaw tight, eyes unreadable.

He looks directly at Barty, not even pretending to smile.

Barty only grins wider. “Perfect timing, Regulus. Just asking your girl here to spend a little time with me tomorrow! We’re thinking Hogsmeade.”

Regulus doesn’t answer or even smile. He just takes a slow step toward you.

Barty claps his hands once, mock-pleasant. “Well, now I don’t have to worry about walking her back. I’ll pick you up at the dorm tomorrow, yeah?”

You look between them, confused, but Barty doesn’t give you time to answer. He gives a wink and strolls off down the corridor, whistling low under his breath.

You turn back to Regulus. “What was that about?”

He starts walking, not waiting for you to follow.

You hurry after him. “Regulus!”

He doesn’t look at you. “You seemed busy.”

You frown. “What does that mean?”

“It means I didn’t want to interrupt,” he mutters, voice clipped.

You fall silent for a few steps, trying to puzzle through the tone, cold and sharp, nothing like the warmth he usually carries around you.

“I didn’t agree to anything,” you say quietly. “I didn’t even understand what he was doing.”

Regulus exhales slowly, still not looking at you.

“I’m not stupid,” he says. “I know exactly what he was doing.”

You watch the rigid line of his back as he walks ahead, and for the first time, you’re not sure how to reach him.

You catch up to him just outside the common room, your steps quick and light across the stone floor.

He doesn’t slow when he hears you or even glance back. That alone is strange.

“Regulus,” you call gently. He keeps walking.

You try again, louder. “Regulus!”

He stops.

But he still doesn’t look at you. His shoulders are stiff, the line of his spine pulled taut, as if even standing still is a strain.

You frown, stepping up beside him. “What’s wrong with you?” you ask lightly, hoping the softness in your voice will coax whatever it is from him. “You’ve been off since—”

“I’m fine.”

You blink. “You don’t sound fine.”

He finally turns to you. “I’m just tired,” he mutters.

You cross your arms. “Tired doesn’t usually come with the silent treatment.”

Regulus scoffs under his breath and starts walking again.

You follow. “Did I do something?”

He doesn’t answer.

You press again, voice rising. “Regulus!”

That’s when he turns, too fast, too sudden. “Why does it always have to be about you?”

You freeze.

“What?” you whisper.

He exhales through his nose, jaw clenched, like he’s said too much already. “Forget it.”

“No, say it,” you snap, stepping forward. “You’re being impossible right now, and I deserve to know why.”

His eyes flicker to yours, cold and unreadable. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself just fine earlier. Maybe you should go ask Barty to walk you back.”

The name lands like ice on your skin.

You blink again, more confused than anything. “What does Barty have to do with this?”

Regulus laughs once — a hollow, bitter sound. “Of course! You don’t even see it.”

“See what?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” you say firmly, voice rising. “If you’re going to treat me like this, you don’t get to act like I’m the problem. Tell me what I did.”

“You didn’t do anything,” he says, almost too fast. “That’s the point!”

Your mouth opens, then shuts again. You stare at him for a long moment, stunned and aching and not even sure what it is you’re supposed to be defending yourself from.

“I don’t understand,” you whisper.

He looks at you, really looks, and for a moment something flickers behind his eyes — not quite anger, not quite sorrow. But then it’s gone.

“Neither do I,” he says tightly, and turns again, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor.

You stand there for a long moment, the stone walls pressing in around you, heart hammering too loud in the sudden quiet.

You didn’t cry.

You told yourself that when you slammed the door shut behind you, chest heaving and eyes dry with stubborn heat.

You wouldn’t cry over Regulus Black and his moods and his walls and his unreadable coldness. You paced the length of your room for what felt like hours, silent and bristling, your thoughts circling like a storm.

And when sleep finally came, it was out of exhaustion, not peace.

The morning dawned too early, too bright. You woke with your jaw clenched, the memory of his voice sharp in your bones, the ache of confusion still lodged under your ribs.

You got dressed slower than usual. There was hope beneath your frustration — that maybe, just maybe, it had been a bad night.

That maybe he’d speak.

You made your way through the corridors, the castle quiet in that golden, waking kind of way. And there he was.

Up ahead, his stride is even and precise, as always. The clean line of his shoulders, the dark sweep of his hair, too familiar not to draw you in.

“Regulus,” you called gently, a little breathless.

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t even glance at you.

He passed by as if he hadn’t heard. As if you weren’t even there.

Like you were nothing.

You stopped walking. Your eyes stung, but you blinked it away, standing alone in the middle of the corridor, heat rising to your cheeks, sharp and furious.

Fine. If he wanted to be cold, you’d let him freeze alone.

“Morning.”

The voice curled around you with an easy drawl, smooth as ever.

You turned to find Barty leaning casually against the wall just ahead, his eyes already waiting for yours, lazy amusement tugging at his mouth.

You hesitated for only a moment. Then you walked toward him.

Far behind you, unnoticed by most, two Marauders sat in a tucked-away alcove near the end of the corridor.

kOne leaned forward just enough to catch the moment Regulus passed you without looking. The other raised a brow.

Remus smirked behind the rim of his cup. Sirius didn’t bother hiding his grin.

You, of course, didn’t see it.

You only saw Barty, already stepping forward to fall into pace beside you. “Rough morning?” he asked, like he didn’t already know.

You exhaled slowly, lips twitching into something tired but sharp. “You could say that.”

He gave a soft chuckle, brushing his hand through his hair. “Well, lucky for you, I happen to be excellent company. You need a seat partner?”

You nodded before thinking, letting him guide you into the Great Hall without another glance back.

You followed him down the aisle, right past the usual table where Regulus always sat — not even sparing a glance.

Barty pulled out the bench for you with a flourish, flashing a half-smile. “Allow me.”

You sat, jaw tight but grateful, and he slid in beside you with practiced ease.

“So,” he said, reaching for a slice of toast. “What’s the plan today, trouble? Should we skip Potions?”

You laughed, quietly. “Tempting.”

His eyes flicked over you, warm and just a little too knowing. “You’re sad.”

You blinked, surprised. “What?”

Barty grinned. “You’ve got that edge today. Out of all the gryffindors, you’re usually the happiest. So what’s got little Lupin sad?”

You shook your head, pretending not to be flustered. “It’s really nothing.”

“Whatever you say, trouble,” he said smoothly.

Far off, behind his own untouched plate, Regulus did not look away from the spot you used to sit.

“You really ought to let yourself have fun more often, you know?” Barty said, tilting his head as he studied you.

You gave him a look, but your lips curled into a smile. “I do have fun. You’re not the only source of entertainment at Hogwarts.”

“Maybe not,” he murmured, voice dipping lower now. “But I am the best one.”

You laughed despite yourself. He leaned a little closer, his knee brushing yours as if by accident. You didn’t pull away. His presence was warm, light, easy.

Still, your eyes flicked away for a moment.

You thought of how Regulus always knew what you needed before you said it, how his silences somehow spoke more truth than others’ words.

You thought of the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing left in the world worth trusting after all the heartache his family brought upon him.

And just like that, the breath you took felt thinner.

Barty didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and he didn’t care.

He shifted again, closer still. His hand hovered near yours, his eyes unreadable now.

“You’ve got this look,” he said softly. “Like you’re trying to decide something.”

You blinked. “Am I?”

“I don’t know,” he said, his gaze fixed on your mouth. “But if I’m lucky, maybe you’ll decide in my favor.”

And then he leaned in. Slowly, deliberately, like gravity itself had shifted to pull him closer.

His face tilted toward yours, the space between you thinning until his lips hovered just shy of yours, brushing the shape of your breath.

Your breath hitched. A quiet, startled catch in your chest. And before you could think better of it, before you could remind yourself that something about this felt not quite right, you found yourself beginning to lean in, too.

“I need my copy of Advanced Defensive Charms back,”

The voice cut through the moment like a blade, sharp and deliberate. You jolted slightly, startled. Regulus stood a few paces away, arms crossed, his tone just loud enough to make a few heads turn.

His eyes never once flicked to you. They were locked on Barty, steady and searing, the kind of stare that didn’t waver or soften, only dared him to lean closer.

“Now?” you asked, breath catching.

“Yes, now.” He didn’t wait for a response. He simply turned, expecting you to follow.

You hesitated, glancing back at Barty. He only hummed under his breath, half a grin tugging at his lips.

“Well,” Barty said with a slow smile, rising to his feet. His eyes flicked to Regulus, all amusement. “Good luck with that.”

He brushed past you lightly, then turned back just enough to add, “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

As he passed Regulus, his shoulder brushed deliberately against his. He leaned in, voice barely audible, words meant for one person only.

“Took you long enough, Black.”

You didn’t hear it. You were already catching up, confusion stirring beneath your ribs. You moved after Regulus without looking back.

Barty, however, didn’t glance away. He smiled to himself and wandered off, whistling low under his breath.

And not too far off, beneath the arch of a crumbling corridor, Sirius watched with a grin curled into the corner of his mouth.

Remus leaned against the wall beside him, expression unreadable, but his eyes flicked briefly to Regulus’s back.

“Well,” Sirius said under his breath. “That’s one way for him to realise.”

Right after Barty left, before you could fully process what had just happened, a hand closed around yours. Firm, warm, and unmistakably his.

You froze mid-step, surprise catching in your throat. “Regulus?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he tugged sharply, a sudden, insistent pull that sent your feet moving before your mind could even catch up.

He was dragging you out of the hall, his jaw clenched tight, eyes fixed straight ahead with an intensity that brooked no argument.

You stumbled, breath hitching in your chest. “What the hell are you doing?”

Still no response.

“Regulus!” You yanked at your arm, trying desperately to plant your heels into the cold stone floor. “What’s gotten into you?”

His grip didn’t waver. Knuckles whitening around your wrist, holding on like losing you was something he simply could not afford.

“You can’t just—drag me around like this,” you snapped, voice rising now.

“You ignored me yesterday, acted like I didn't exist, and now you think you can just show up, grab me, and what? Command me like a dog?”

He kept walking.

“Regulus, seriously, stop! What is this? What do you want from me?”

You were furious now. Not just annoyed—furious. Because you didn’t understand, and he wasn’t saying anything, and his silence felt like a match held too long over your skin.

“Is this a joke to you?” you hissed. “Because if this is some twisted mood swing of yours, I’m not playing along!”

He didn’t even look at you.

He was dragging you through the empty corridors, his grip unwavering, steps quick and purposeful as the castle's echoes followed behind.

When he finally stopped, it was outside a narrow door tucked between unused classrooms—an old closet room long forgotten. Without hesitation, he opened it and pulled you inside, the darkness swallowing you both.

You were breathless, panting more from anger than exertion.

Without warning, he spun you around, his hand gripping your waist with a force that both startled and grounded you.

His touch was firm, commanding, pulling you close as he pressed you back against the cold stone wall.

His breaths came ragged and uneven, a low exhale escaping him as if the air itself was thick with tension.

His pupils were dilated, dark and wide, flickering with a restless fire that made your skin prickle.

The smooth weight of his body loomed over you, tall and unyielding, casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the space between you.

Your shoulders met the wall with a deliberate, lingering pressure—not harsh, but enough to stop your breath and still your racing thoughts in an instant.

Your hands flew up to his chest instinctively. “Are you insane?!” you snapped.

He stared at you like he couldn’t hear you. Or like he’d heard every word but couldn’t stop himself anyway.

He stepped closer. You could feel the tension pulsing off him now, raw, sharp, and electric.

And then, finally, he spoke. “He wants you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Junior,” he said, voice low and bitter. “He wants you.”

You shot him a fierce glare, voice trembling with barely contained anger. “Junior? Is that what this is? Him sitting with me?”

He closed the gap, breath hot against your face, hand gripping your waist tight.

“He wasn’t just sitting with you. He was about to kiss you and you were going to kiss him back!.”

You shot back, voice sharp, nearly a shout. “And why do you care?”

He opened his mouth then closed it again. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

That made you scoff. “Oh, really? Enlighten me, Black.”

His eyes searched you, as if trying to decide whether to say it at all.

You laughed, too harsh. “You know what, Regulus? You’re unbelievable!”

“You’re acting like I’ve committed some crime. He sat beside me. He talked. What did you want me to do, tell him to leave?”

“You were going to kiss him,” Regulus said, he didn’t flinch. Instead, his hand shot out, fingers curling around your jaw with an unexpected firmness that both claimed and grounded you.

You stared at him, the heat in your chest twisting. “And what if I did?”

His thumb brushed lightly against your lips, slow and deliberate, before his eyes dropped from your face to linger on your mouth.

His voice dropped low, edged with a quiet intensity that made your pulse hammer in your ears.

[I highly suggest playing Friends by Chase Atlantic here!!!]

“I’m not here to argue,” he said, husky but steady. “I’m here to tell you that I won’t let you forget what almost happened. You were about to kiss some other bastard.”

His gaze held yours, unyielding and raw. “And I’m the only one you should ever want.”

Before you could even register what was happening, his lips were on yours, urgent and demanding.

You kissed him back instantly, your hands in his shirt, pulling, anchoring, trying to close the impossible space that had always lived between you.

The kiss deepened, lips parting, breaths catching, hands everywhere at once—his in your hair, yours fisted in the front of his shirt like you needed something to hold onto or else you’d fall straight through the floor.

His body pressed against yours, firm and unrelenting, pinning you to the stone wall behind like you were something worth holding onto, something he couldn’t let go of even if he tried.

Your legs parted instinctively, one of his thighs sliding between yours as your hips tilted forward without thinking, chasing the pressure, chasing him.

The way he moved against you—slow, firm, purposeful—sent heat coiling low in your stomach, your breath stuttering as your hands slid down the hard lines of his back and held him there.

You could barely think past it. Barely speak.

But then your mouth opened and—

“Regulus,” you breathed, the sound escaping like a prayer. “God—Please.”

He stilled instantly.

The world narrowed to the way his chest heaved against yours, the shallow rise and fall of his breath. His lips brushed yours again, barely, as he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and blown wide with something more dangerous than want.

“Say that again,” he murmured, voice ragged and low like it had been torn straight from somewhere deep.

You swallowed, heat flickering through you. “Regulus.”

His name on your tongue again made something in him snap.

He surged forward before the last syllable left your lips, kissing you harder, like he was trying to consume it, claim it, swallow the sound down and make it his.

He groaned into your mouth, hips pressing against yours again in a movement that had you gasping, clinging tighter.

You didn’t hesitate. You pulled him closer, fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt, touch desperate and searching.

His mouth found the curve of your neck, hot and open, and a gasp escaped your lips before you could stop it.

“I need you, please.” you panted, breath catching as your head fell back,

Your legs shifted instinctively, knees parting, trying to draw him closer still as his teeth scraped lightly over your skin, his hands tightening at your waist like he couldn’t get close enough.

“Keep those legs spread for me, amour.” He groaned.

The command was so firm and unquestionable that it nearly took you by surprise. He had never spoken to you like that before. Moments between you were usually filled with playfulness and light teasing.

You reached for him, fingers curling into the front of his trousers, a silent plea for him to touch you where you need him most.

But before you could move further, his hand wrapped around your wrist.

“Behave,” he murmured, voice low and rough, with an edge that hadn’t been there before.

You barely manage to catch your breath before his hands slide lower, gripping your waist as he presses you harder against the wall.

Regulus leans in, his mouth finding your neck, biting and sucking with a hunger that sends your pulse skittering. Each mark he leaves burns, a promise, a claim—evidence you already know you’ll need to hide later.

“Someone could walk in,” you gasp, voice trembling as your back presses harder into the wall, but Regulus just exhales, his breath hot against your collarbone.

“Then be quiet,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. His hands slide beneath your shirt, palms gliding over your skin with agonizing slowness. You shiver beneath his touch, already arching into him before you realize you're doing it.

“You wanted this, didn’t you?”

Your answer is a broken whimper as your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging hard enough to draw a groan from his throat.

His grip tightens on your hips, and you feel him against you—hard, aching, insistent through the fabric of his trousers, grinding into your thigh.

“Need you,” you breathe, the words barely making it past your lips, “please, Regulus.”

Regulus leans back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and seething. “You think it's funny,” he says, voice low and cold, “going around flirting with Junior?”

Before you can answer, his hands move—urgent, possessive—tugging your skirt up with rough precision, exposing skin to the cool air and his hotter gaze. His fingers press into your thighs, thumbs brushing dangerously close, and the sharp edge of the tension coils tighter in your stomach.

“You were smiling at him,” he mutters, like the thought alone sets him off. “Laughing.”

Your breath hitches. He presses closer, chest against yours, thigh slipping between your legs until you can barely stand straight.

“Say it,” he demands, voice at your ear. “Say who you want.”

You whimper softly, eyes barely meeting his as the words slip out, “Want you.”

He raises an eyebrow, a slow smirk curling at his lips. “Uh uh, that’s not my name, amour.” he says, voice low and amused.

You straighten immediately, biting back a smile. “Want you, Regulus,” you correct.

“Good, baby,” Regulus murmured, but before you could respond, he pulled you flush against him, capturing your lips again. His kisses were harsher now, urgent and hungry for more.

His hands slid beneath your skirt, fingertips tracing along your bare skin, sending a shiver through you. His glare was intense, but softened by the way his lips parted slightly, breath uneven.

You leaned in closer, brushing your lips along his jaw and teased, “Is that all you’ve got, Reggie? Barty seems to be doing a much better job.”

A low sound rumbles in his chest, and before you know it, he’s doesn’t give you a chance to react before he’s stepping between your legs, hands spreading your thighs wider.

“You’re getting cocky,” he mutters, unbuttoning your shirt off in one quick motion. His hands are everywhere, skimming your sides, gripping your waist, fingers digging into your thighs.

He finally rests one on your waist, and one just under your breast. “Think you can go around acting like that? Such a brat.”

You bite your lip, trying to hold back a moan when his mouth latches onto your collarbone, sucking a mark into your skin.

“You didn’t exactly stop me,” you manage to say, your voice breathy.

Regulus just scoffs, his hands moving to pull your skirt up “You’re right. Guess I need to teach you a lesson.”

His hands slide over your panties, and his lips brush against your ear. “You’re gonna keep quiet, understand?”

You nod, breathless, and he smirks, clearly not convinced. His fingers dip lower, teasing you through your underwear, and you have to bite down on your lip to muffle the noise that slips out.

Regulus just hums, almost pleased with your reaction. His thumb grazes against your clothed clit, just barely giving you what you want. He applies slight pressure, and you bite your lip harder, eager for more.

“Better keep your voice low. You wouldn’t want anyone finding out how desperate you are for me, would you?” He taunts, his thumb pressing more firmly.

He pushes your panties to the side, and strokes long stripes up and down your folds, collecting the arousal that has accumulated.

He groans softly as he stares down at your cunt, and he slides his middle finger inside of you, earning a soft gasp from you. You can’t help the way your hips buck forward, chasing his touch. You're too needy to be embarrassed at this point.

“Please, Reggie,” you whisper, your hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric.

He gives you that intense, the one that makes your stomach twist with anticipation.

“You’re lucky I need you this bad,” he mutters before he slips his ring finger inside, curling just right, making you mewl.

His other hand cups the back of your neck, keeping you close as his mouth moves against yours, swallowing your moans.

His fingers move faster, and it’s impossible to stay quiet, but he doesn’t seem to care anymore. All that matters is the way you’re unraveling in his hands, and he’s watching every bit of it with a smug, satisfied look.

The way his fingers curl so precisely inside of you almost makes you see stars—and his thumb increases the speed against your clit. You grind your hips harder into his hand, desperate for your release.

“You’re gonna remember this next time you think about kissing Junior,” he murmurs, his thumb rubbing circles over your clit, making your thighs tremble around him.

"Say it."

"I'll remember it, just—please, need all of you." You whimper as his fingers fuck you faster.

Regulus doesn’t waste any time, pulling out his fingers and spinning you against the wall.

You gasp loudly at how quickly he pulled his fingers out of you, and also being slammed against the wall rather quickly.

His hand snakes around your waist, pulling your hips back to meet his, and you can feel how hard he is through his pants.

“You’re gonna be good for me now, right?” He mutters against your ear, his voice rough and dripping with dominance.

You nod, too breathless to respond properly, and he chuckles lowly. “Use your words, amour.”

“Y-Yes,” you stammer, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “I’ll be good, Regulus. I promise.”

“Good girl, that’s what I thought,” he murmurs, one hand slipping under your shirt, brushing over your stomach, while the other tugs your hips back against him.

His lips trace the curve of your neck, sucking a mark just below your ear.

You can’t help the way you push and wiggle back against him, desperate for more contact.

Regulus clicks his tongue disapprovingly, his grip tightening on your waist to keep you in place.

“Patience,” he says, almost like he’s scolding you, but there’s a hint of a smirk in his voice.

His lips follow, kissing along your shoulder as he pushes his own pants down just enough to free himself.

His cock stands proudly, and he gives himself a couple pumps in preparation. He runs his hand over the tip, collecting the precum that had accumulated.

He brings himself closer to you, and presses his cock head against your wet folds, causing the man to sigh shakily.

You feel him press against you, hot and heavy, and your breath hitches in anticipation. Regulus leans over you, his chest pressing against your back, one hand still gripping your waist.

“Please, I need you,” you whisper, pushing your hips back to encourage him.

He finally gives in, guiding himself to your entrance and pushing in slowly, stretching you inch by inch.

The way he fills you has your knees almost giving out, but Regulus’s grip on your waist holds you steady. His girth stretches your walls out further and further—the sting and burn never feeling better.

“Fuck,” he groans, stilling once he’s fully inside you, balls deep. “So tight... and you just take it so well.”

You whimper at the stretch, your body adjusting to the intrusion, and Regulus’s lips press against the back of your neck, grounding you.

Once he’s sure you’re ready, he starts to move, his thrusts slow and deep, every movement deliberate and measured. His grip on you tightens, and he lets out a soft sigh of pleasure.

“God!” you gasp, as he picks up the pace, the sound of skin against skin filling the room. His balls clap against your ass as he fucks into you harsher.

“Keep quiet,” he warns, his teeth grazing your shoulder. “You don’t want anyone to hear how desperate you sound, do you?”

You bite your lip, doing your best to muffle your moans, but Regulus’s relentless pace makes it impossible.

His hand slides up to cover your mouth, muffling your whimpers as he pounds into you harder, his hips snapping against yours with an urgency that drives you wild.

"You're doing a good job at listening," he praises as his cock slams in and out of your tight walls, "I'm s-shocked." You bite your lip harder, eager to please him.

Knowing Regulus, he'll stop if you disobey. You nod your head in response, and thrust your hips back into his to match his pace.

You can feel yourself getting closer, your walls clenching tightly around him, and he whimpers at the sensation, his hand sliding from your mouth to your chest, pulling you back against him as he thrusts deeper.

“Gonna cum for me?” He whispers against your ear, his breath hot and ragged.

You nod frantically. "Good," he growls, and he bites down on your shoulder, his pace becoming rougher, more erratic.

The wet sloshing sounds filling the room along with bated breaths and desperate moans. “Fuck, amour, squeezing me so good. pretty little pussy was made just f’me”

Cock drunk moans being the only response coming from yourlips. Fingers of one of his hands digging into the flesh of your hip, no doubt leaving bruising prints you’d be seeing for days.

The other creeping around your throat, squeezing briefly before arching you back to look into those eyes you loved so much. “Reg, hah, p-please, I can’t!”.

A harsh smack against the skin of your ass making you gasp. “Now, what did I tell you about being quiet?”

Your eyes roll back, walls of your cunt starting to spam as you feel that beautiful high creeping upon you. “Can’t hold, fuck."

His slender fingers toy with your clit bringing you closer, jaw slack with a desperate cry of his name.

“Merlin, you squeeze my cock so good, shit, gonna stuff you full of my cum so you’ll belong to no one other than me!”

Whines leave your throat at the rough thrusts, tip of his cock practically kissing your cervix. “I’ll fuck this cunt as many times as it takes, as many times I need to to make sure you’re no one else’s”.

You’re filled with the burning feeling of the thick ropes of his cum emptying deep within you, flooding your womb with the intention of his seed doing its job, leaving you whining for more.

“You feel so good.”

Emptiness taking over as he pulls out, still twitching at the sight of his cum slowly trailing down your thighs.

Regulus’s hands found your waist with a firm, almost desperate grip. He spun you around to face him fully, his touch careful but commanding.

He pulled your panties upwards and smoothed the hem of your skirt, adjusting it with an almost ridiculous kind of precision for someone who had just fucked you like that.

Then, more gently, he cupped your face, his thumb brushing along your cheek as if to ground himself. “Look at me,” he murmured, voice low but steady.

You did, your eyes wide and breath shallow.

He held your gaze for a long beat before the tension cracked just slightly. “Are you alright? Was I too harsh?”

You nodded, pupils still blown wide, lips parted as you tried to steady your breath.

Your neck was littered in the proof of him—faint, blooming marks he hadn’t quite meant to leave but hadn’t resisted either.

Regulus’s hands didn’t leave you. One of them tightened at your jaw, the other resting low on your waist as he leaned in, gaze dark and unwavering.

“Use your words, baby,” he said softly, but it wasn’t a suggestion.

Your voice came quiet, a little shaky. “I’m good. Just… not sure I can walk.”

That pulled a laugh from him. Real and unguarded. It burst from his chest before he could stop it, low and warm, his head tipping slightly as he smiled at you.

And you just stared.

Because it wasn’t often that Regulus Black laughed.

And you couldn’t look away.

Your chest ached in the sweetest way.

You loved him. You had, maybe, for far longer than you’d ever dared to admit. But now, standing here, with his hands still on your skin and his laughter blooming like a promise between you, it was impossible to ignore.

He looked back at you, eyes soft, still shining with something that made your heart stutter.

And you knew. There was no one else you would ever want like this.

His eyes searched yours like he still didn’t quite believe this was real, like he might wake up if he blinked too long.

“I’ve wanted to do that,” he said, voice low and rough, “for as long as I can remember.”

You blinked, a startled laugh slipping from your lips. You tilted your head slightly, amusement flickering in your eyes.

“You know,” you said, breath still shaky, “Remus might actually kill you for this.”

Regulus shrugged, a faint smile pulling at his lips, equal parts challenge and surrender. “Merlin, don’t even mention it.”

Your grin widened, eyes gleaming now. “Well,” you murmured, as if tasting the words before you committed to them, “our brothers are dating.”

His brows twitched, and for a moment, something almost vulnerable crossed his face. His voice was quieter this time, uncertain around the edges.

“Should we?”

The question hung in the space between your mouths, half-ridiculous, half-serious.

His voice was a whisper, raw with meaning and years of silent longing. “Je t’aime.”

“Je t’aime, Y/n, since I was eleven.”

A soft, joyful laugh escaped your lips, the weight of his words settling deep in your heart.

“I love you, Regulus, since I was eleven too.” you breathed, your voice trembling with the truth of it.

Without a pause, he drew you close again, his kiss slow and reverent, as if trying to memorize every part of you.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he murmured against your lips, the depth of his love echoing in every word.

Unbeknownst to you and Regulus, not far away Sirius and Remus were sharing a quiet moment, their voices low but filled with laughter.

Sirius was clapping Barty on the shoulder, his eyes bright with mischief and satisfaction.

“Thanks for stepping in, Junior,” Sirius said with a grin. “I don’t think we could’ve gotten through to them without a little… persuasion.”

Remus chuckled, shaking his head. “It was about time someone shook things up. Watching them circle each other like that was honestly painful.”

Remus sighed, then added proudly, “I’m sure he pulled her aside to talk things out. Maturely! Like the reasonable Black he is.”

Sirius snorted. “Right. I’m very sure he’s handling this like a Black.”

Remus froze. His eyes widened slowly as something unpleasant dawned on him. “You don’t think they would—”

“Oh, that’s exactly how we talked our feelings out, remember?” Sirius grinned, smug and absolutely no help at all.

Remus looked positively horrified and about to pass out. “Merlin. No. No, no—she’s my sister—”

Barty was already wheezing with laughter, doubled over on the bench. “Come on, Lupin. He’s a Black. What did you expect?”

Remus suddenly stood, eyes wide with dawning horror. “Oh no. No. I need to find them.”

He was already striding down the corridor, muttering about protective charms and locking spells, while Sirius and Barty doubled over behind him—laughing, breathless, as their plan succeeded just a little too well for Remus’ peace of mind.

Somewhere behind the walls and winding corridors, two people were finally finding their way to each other, none the wiser to the gentle push that had set it all in motion.

#this is so beautiful

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