"you feel that?" patrick grins against him. "still over your boxers, 'n' you're already—"

"don't narrate it," art groans, a hand sliding into the other's dark curls.

"why not? afraid i'll say something true?"

art's incapable of answering. all he can do is look down at him—brows drawn together, lips parted, sweat gathering at his temples despite the air conditioning humming overhead. it's a look patrick is more than familiar with. a last-ditch attempt at restraint before he's got patrick bent over the nearest surface.

so he doesn't push too far. he enjoys this part. lips moulded over the thick line of his length through the cotton, open-mouthed and wet. his tongue presses through the fabric like he's trying to taste him through it. he can feel art trembling beneath him. art's hand in his hair gives a light, pleading tug.

"off," he says, voice hoarse. "please get them off."

"not yet," patrick hums. and then he sucks. slow, deep, through his boxers. art's curse is more of a whine as his eyes roll back, head lolling against the chair. "wanna make you cum like this."

"ngghhh—what? okay," art pants, breathless and too wrecked to really put up a proper argument. it's impossible to still the way he tries to buck up against him, but patrick holds him down with a firm palm splayed across his thigh.

"don't move," he murmurs. his voice is softer now, coaxing, completely at odds with the way he's absolutely ruining him. then the pressure of his mouth returns, hot and unrelenting. he licks a slow stripe along the underside, the fabric gone completely damp, clinging until every shape and ridge of art's hard cock is brutally defined. he can taste him through it. smell him, all musk and desperation.

art's other hand is curled around the arm of the chair, knuckles white from how hard he's gripping the wood. the other clings to patrick's hair, occasionally tugging too hard to be comfortable, but patrick relishes on that almost pain. the heat in his gut is building embarrassingly fast, but patrick doesn't ease up. just keeps sucking over the soaked spot with slow, dragging passes of his tongue.

"you're my boy, aren't you? gonna give it to me?" patrick asks without lifting his mouth. the words vibrate through the cotton.

art's hips jerk again in answer—less a yes, more an oh god please. "yeah. yeah, i'm your boy."

his thighs are shaking. the tension in him is total, every muscle taunt and braced like holding himself still might help him last longer. but it's been a losing battle since patrick's tongue first descended on his boxers. he's got him unravelling at the seams with his mouth still sealed over fabric. not even skin on skin. he can't even begin to process how pathetic that is.

"fuck," art whines. "i—oh, patrick, i can't—it's embarrassing—"

"you can," patrick croons, eyes glinting wickedly when they flick up to his flushed face. "be good. let go for me, artie."

art groans, spine arching clean off the chair. the pressure, the heat, the relentless mouth, the scrape of teeth right at the edge—it's too much. so when his orgasm hits him, it's hard. not silent or graceful. it rips through him hard enough that his whole frame shakes, patrick's name pouring endless from his lips in desperate moans. his boxers are a soaked mess as the brunette continues to mouth through it, coaxing every last tremor of pleasure out of him.

patrick finally pulls back, chin glistening with his own saliva. "told you i'd do it," he says matter-of-factly, hands smoothing down art's sweaty thighs.

"fuck you," art mutters, muffled into his hand as he drapes an arm lazily over his face to cover his eyes as he pants through the aftermath.

"later," patrick laughs. "right now, you look like you need a minute."

You lay waiting for him, your hand shading your eyes from the now brighter room. You hear Art trip over something as he rushes back, a small “ouch” escaping him. “Here, it will be quick, I promise,” he says, gently moving your hand away and holding it at your side as he sticks the tip of the thermometer in your mouth. A moment passes, and the thermometer beeps. “What is it?” You try to sit up slightly, but he softly pushes you back down. “100, you’re staying home today,” he whispers against your forehead before giving it a small kiss. Art stands up and walks over to his side of the bed, “and I’m staying home with you.” he leaves the room before you can argue against it, grabbing his phone on the way out to make some calls.

By the time he comes back, he is crawling back into bed with you, planting kisses all over your face, barely listening to you when you say, “I’ll make you sick”. Instead, he just scoops an arm under yours and pulls you closer into him, “Does it look like I even care?” he smiles as he looks down at you. Both of you stay like that for a moment. “How about I fill up the tub for you? Would you like that?” You nod softly against his chest before he gets up again to go back into the bathroom. Not long after that, you hear the rush of water. You sigh and sink deeper into bed, just about to fall back asleep, when Art gently taps your shoulder, “Take this, it should help with your cough.” he opens his clenched hand, showing you two small DayQuil pills. After you take them, he picks up the glass of water from your nightstand and hands it to you, watching intently as you swallow both of them.

“I’m not even doing anything,” you said sweetly, hands braced on his shoulders, your mouth grazing the shell of his ear. “You’re the one all worked up, baby.” You could feel the tension, the hardness of his cock under through the layer of clothing.

“Don’t call me that,” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut. “Not when you’re doin’ this. Not when I’m this close already—fuck—you’re evil.”

You ground down harder, your clothed pussy dragging over the ridge of his cock through his jeans. You felt how thick he was, how wet the fabric had gotten with both your arousal, how close to breaking he really was. “But you like it,” you whispered, the slightest of mocking in your tone.

Art shivered beneath you, his hands twitched on your thighs like he wanted to move them; grab you, flip you, pin you, but didn’t dare. You’d set the pace, you’d told him not to touch. And he, sweet thing that he was, was still trying so hard to be good for you.

“You’re a menace,” he said through his teeth. You rolled your hips again, slower this time, your clit catching just right on the curve of his zipper. It made your lashes flutter, your mouth drop open with a curse. “Oh,” you moaned softly, letting the sound break loose and land right in his ear. “You feel so big, even like this. Poor thing. Can’t even help it, can you?”

Art whimpered; full-body, actual whimper.

And it lit you on fire. “Oh my God,” you whispered, grinning. “Did you just make that sound for me?”

“Stop teasing,” he said, voice strangled. “You want me to stop?” You froze your hips entirely, smug. “You sure about that?” His hands tightened on your thighs. “Don’t you fucking dare stop.” You tsked, your breath hot against his flushed cheek. “Now, now. That doesn’t sound like asking nicely.”

Art’s eyes snapped open, wide and pleading, pupils blown dark with lust. “Please,” he whispered. “Please don’t stop. I’ll be good, I swear. Just… fuck, please keep going.” Your lips brushed his, just the ghost of a kiss. “Good boy.”

He whimpered again. And you started moving—slow, torturously, dragging circles of your hips against his, your slick of your pussy soaking through the lace and smearing onto the denim of his jeans with every grind. Your clit rubbed against his zipper, stimulating every nerve.

“Does it hurt, baby?” you murmured, watching his face twist in pleasure. “Being this hard, and you still can’t come?”

“It’s torture,” he said, voice cracked. “You’re fuckin’ torturing me.”

“I thought you liked that.” You replied with amusement on the edge of your voice. “I do.” His hands shook where they gripped you. “I fucking love it.”

You rocked harder, more purposefully now, grinding down like you meant to make him come just like this; hands off, clothes on, utterly helpless beneath you. And oh, he was helpless. His mouth hung open, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded and glassy with lust, his hips twitching like they wanted to meet yours but couldn’t quite find the rhythm. Like he wanted to thrust, wanted to fuck; but didn’t know how when you weren’t letting him do anything.

You grabbed his chin and forced him to look at you.

“Feel that?” you said, rolling your hips with extra pressure on the downstroke. “That’s my pussy rubbing all over your cock. You’re not even inside me and I’m still fucking you through your jeans.”

“God!” Art gasped, eyes rolling back. “You gonna come like this?” you taunted, voice syrupy sweet. “Like a needy little virgin with his first girlfriend grinding on his lap?”

That broke him. He groaned so loud it echoed, his hips bucking once before he slammed them back down into the couch, visibly trying to hold back. His fingers dug bruises into your thighs, but still... still—he didn’t break your rules. “Oh my god,” you breathed. “You are gonna come, aren’t you? Just from this?”

“Please let me,” he begged, voice hoarse. “Please, I’ll do anything... fuck, it hurts, I need it! Please let me come in my jeans, I need to, I’m gonna fuckin’ lose it.” You leaned in close, nose brushing his, lips barely grazing. “Do it.”

His body snapped like a rubber band; one harsh, shaking grind up into you and he was gone: moaning deep, ragged, hips twitching as he came hard in his pants, completely undone beneath you. You felt the heat spread through the denim, the throb of his cock trapped against his boxers and your soaked panties, the way he panted like he couldn’t get enough air.

“Jesus,” he breathed, eyes wide, chest heaving. “That was…” You smirked. “Hot?” He laughed, ragged and dazed, cheeks pink and eyes still half-lidded. “I was gonna say humiliating, but yeah. That too.” You rolled your hips one last time, teasing. He groaned, sensitive now, squirming beneath you. “Look at you,” you whispered. “Came in your jeans like a teenage boy... just for me.”

“You’re evil,” he said, eyes dark. “You know that, right?” You kissed him then, slow, filthy, claiming. He melted under you like he always did, hands finally lifting to rest on your hips. Not controlling and not demanding but just there.

“You know I’m not done with you, right?” you murmured against his mouth. He smiled against your lips, dazed and breathless.

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

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

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

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

You are, to put it simply, perfect.

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

They want to be you.

Or they want to be inside you.

Either works.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You just let them spiral on their own.

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

Because you’re the girl everyone wants to be.

Or be inside.

Or both.

And they will never know how ugly it gets underneath.

Except him.

And when something calls for a messier touch?

You have Art.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel alive.

And sometimes, only sometimes, you reward him.

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

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

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

He thinks he’s the corrupted one.

Thinks he’s the problem.

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

But that’s the joke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh. “In English…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can put it anywhere.”

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

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

“You got yourself a bet, baby.”

And just like that, you win again.

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

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

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

note: another part of talking body!

The tutoring sessions with Art became a regular thing, and he didn't even have to ask to come over anymore. He's always the same quiet and shy guy who keeps his head down while he works, but you can tell he's trying hard not to look at you too much. You bought a small foldable table a few weeks ago specifically for him because he started coming over so often and you wanted him to be comfortable. That same table is set up in front of your bed right now as his laptop and iPad take up most of the space. A study playlist plays quietly from your speakers while you sit at your own desk across from him.

You're just wearing an oversized shirt and pajama pants since there are no classes today. Also, it's just Art who’s been here since the afternoon. The final examination is only a week away, and both of you are focusing on making detailed transes for the big day. These topics were already discussed in class, but you're going through everything again to make sure you can recall every detail for the reviewer. Art is tackling the entire reproductive system and all the various cycles while you handle the endocrine system and the different glands.

It's a lot of work to organize, but you're both typing away to finish the reviewers before the night ends. Art is sitting on the edge of your bed while he leans over the foldable table, and his stylus makes a soft scratching sound against the iPad screen. You're over at your own desk, which is right against the side of the mattress, as you try to organize your notes, but the room feels small with both of you squeezed together in this corner. There are empty coffee cups and finished energy drinks scattered across both of your workspaces since it's going to be a long all-nighter for both of you.

“I can’t believe we aren’t even halfway through all these chapters yet,” Art muttered while he rubbed his eyes with one hand. You look over your shoulder to see him hunched over the iPad, but he doesn't look up from his work. “We’ve still got so many transes to finish before morning if we want to cover the whole syllabus,” he complained as he tapped the screen using his stylus to highlight a specific section. You just nodded your head and turned back to your own monitor while the sound of typing from your laptop filled the quiet room.

“Are you planning on sending these notes to the rest of the guys in our block?” you asked while your fingers kept moving across the keyboard to copy information from the ebook. You didn't look up from the screen, but you could hear him take a sip of his energy drink before you could hear the can placed again at the foldable table with a thud. “I’ll share the parts I wrote myself, but I won’t send yours unless you tell me it’s okay,” Art replied, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s fair of you, but I bet that one girl you’re always talking to would love a copy of my notes,” you teased while you turned in your chair to look at him.

He didn't have to move much to face you because of how close your desk is to his table at the end of the bed. You can see the way his neck turned a bit pink before he turned his attention back to the lesson. “Why would I care about what she wants when I’m right here with you?” Art muttered as he stared at his screen and tried to act like he wasn't affected by it. “I’m just asking because she’s always there with you whenever I see you guys at the library,” you said while you turned back to your computer and dismissed his comment with a shrug.

You didn't wait for him to explain himself further but focused on your screen while you started mumbling the lesson under your breath. It's just a way for you to memorize better, and Art knows by now that you aren't really talking to him when you do that. You kept your head down, but your eyes kept wandering over to the mattress every few minutes to watch his hands move across the screen. His fingers look good while he writes, and you find yourself staring at the way he grips the stylus. You feel hotter than usual even though the room temperature hasn't changed at all, and you just tell yourself it's because of the coffee and lack of sleep.

The clothes you’re wearing tonight feel uncomfortable against your skin for some unknown reason even though you always find this shirt and these pants to be your most comfortable pair. “What’s that gland in the mediastinum that helps with immune cells?” you suddenly asked while leaning your head on your hand to look at him. Art didn't even stop what he was doing before he gave you the answer. “That’s the thymus,” he answered while he finally looked up from his iPad to catch your eye. You rolled your eyes when he managed to answer quickly.

“Okay, my turn,” Art muttered as he scrolled through his notes to find something. “What do you call the funnel-shaped part of the tube that has those little finger-” he started to say, but you didn't let him finish. “Infundibulum,” you answered faster than him when you asked his question while you gave him a smug look from your desk. He just laughs and shakes his head at how eager you are. “It’s not supposed to work like that, you smartass,” he joked while he rested his elbows on his knees. “I already know this stuff anyway, so you’ll have to try harder than that,” you said before you turned back to your screen.

“Does it actually make you want sex more when you’re ovulating?” Art asked while he kept his eyes on the ebook, but his voice sounded a bit strained. He didn't look at you yet, but you could see him gripping the stylus tighter as he waited for you to say something. “Why would you even ask me something like that?” you questioned as you turned your chair to face him fully. You felt your face getting warm, and you wondered if he could tell how much the question was actually affecting you right now.

“I just want to understand the more what I’m reading instead of just looking at this,” Art replied before he finally glanced up at you. He looked away almost immediately and focused back on his notes, but his ears were still bright red. “It says the hormones spike during this part of the cycle, but I didn't know if women actually felt the difference,” he added as he shrugged his shoulders to act like it was just a normal curiosity. You just stared at him for a moment because you knew he was trying to be sneaky about the topic, but you didn't call him out on it.

“Go ask your other friends if you want to know about that so badly,” you said before you tsked and shook your head at him. You feel irritated because you are actually feeling that exact ‘spike’ he’s talking about in your body right now, but he doesn't have any idea. “Well, you’re the one here, and they’re not. You’re a woman, so I figured you would know best,” Art replied while he looked toward you with an innocent face as if he were trying to convince you that that is what it is. You just sighed and leaned back in your chair while your fingers tapped against the armrest and your eyes looked up at the ceiling.

“It's just how it works since hormones generally make women feel something more during that time of the month,” you answered, and you kept the details as vague as possible. “So does that mean it's harder for a person to focus on things… like studying when their body is acting like that?” Art asks, and he turned his head from the edge of the bed to look at you. He didn't know how much his sneaky question was making your skin crawl with the need to be touched. You just gripped the armrests of your chair and kept staring at the ceiling because you didn't want him to see how much you were struggling to stay focused on the lesson.

“I suppose it depends on the person, but I’m just trying to finish the work, so stop asking me weird things,” you muttered while you ignored the way your own body was reacting to his voice. “So what do you actually do when you experience that kind of stuff? Well, you know, since the book doesn't really explain the personal side of it,” Art added while he kept staring at you. He seemed to notice your growing annoyance but looked away because he’s been looking for too long. You can feel his gaze on you, and his question about how you handled being turned on makes you embarrassed for something he doesn’t even know.

“I don’t do anything because I am busy trying to pass this exam, unlike some people,” you snapped while you shoved your chair back close to the desk. The sudden movement made him flinch, but he still didn't look up from his spot on the mattress. Art just bit his lip to hide a small grin while he tapped the stylus against his chin. “I’m just saying it’s interesting how the body works when it want something,” he muttered before turning his head again to see your reaction, and he easily reached to grab the edge of your desk when he shifted a little closer to you.

Art stood up from the bed and walked over to stand right behind your chair. He leaned forward until his arms were on either side of you and his hands gripped the edge of the desk while he effectively trapped you in your seat. He lowered his head toward the side of your neck, and his chin almost touched your shoulder. You squeezed your thighs together and breathed heavily as the warmth from his chest pressed against your back. Art looked at your laptop screen as if he was just checking your progress, but he was way too close for you to read anything.

“Do you think guys can actually tell when a girl is ovulating, or is it all just some lucky guess?” he muttered while his breath fanned over your skin. He didn't look at you, but he moved his face a little closer until his lips were nearly touching your ear. You felt your heart hammer against your ribs while you tried to stay still and act like he wasn't making your head spin. “I wouldn't know, I’m not a mad, aren’t I? and I’m actually trying to pass this test,” you gasped while you kept your eyes fixed on the keyboard. He just let out a quiet laugh and stayed exactly where he was to keep you boxed in against the desk.

Art reached down and wrapped his fingers around your wrist to stop you from typing. He squeezed just enough to keep your hand still, but he didn't pull away. You felt your breath hitch as you stared at your fingers while his thumb brushed against your skin. “I told you that I need to finish these notes before the morning,” you whispered while you tried to ignore how fast your heart started beating. He didn't listen to your protest, but he kept his grip firm to keep you trapped in place. “The notes aren’t going anywhere, and you’ve been staring at the same line for ten minutes,” Art muttered while he leaned his chest closer to your back.

He finally let go of your wrist only to slide his hand down to the edge of your desk while he stayed right behind you. You bit your lip and looked away from the screen because you couldn’t focus on the endocrine system’s transes you’re making with him touching you like that. “I’m just tired from all the coffee,” you lied while you felt the heat from his body through your clothes. He let out a quiet laugh and moved his face even closer to your neck while he kept you boxed in. You reached up and covered the back of his hand while you started caressing his knuckles with your thumb.

Art went quiet as you suddenly shoved against the desk to spin your swivel chair around to face him. He didn't expect the move, and he stumbled back while he tried to keep his balance between your legs. “You’re the one who keeps bothering me, so don’t look so surprised,” you whispered while you stared up at him and kept your hand on his. Art let out a shaky breath and gripped the armrests of your chair to steady himself while he leaned over you. “I wasn’t expecting you to actually do anything about it,” he muttered as he looked down at your face and stayed trapped between your knees.

“I’m actually grateful that we’re studying together because I’m learning a lot more than I did alone,” you whispered while you reached up to touch his forearms as he gripped your armrests. You ran your hands over his brachioradialis and felt the heat of his skin against your palms. “I can finally remember the names now that I can feel them on you,” you teased while you slid your hands up to his shoulder where his deltoid muscles is. Art let out a ragged breath, but he didn't pull away as your fingers traced the shape of the muscle.

“It’s easier to accurately locate them when it’s not just in the picture,” you murmured while you felt the muscle tighten beneath your grip. Art leaned even further into your space while your hands moved to the pectoralis major at the front of his chest. You used your palms to feel the muscle while he hovered over you and his heart thumped against your fingertips. “This is a much better reference than the book… especially the biceps brachii,” you joked as you moved your touch to the muscle on his upper arm. Your fingers traced the muscle while your chair stayed trapped between his arms.

He just stared down at you and let out a quiet laugh while his grip on the armrests tightened. “I can’t believe you’re bringing that up after all these months,” Art muttered while he let out a dry laugh and finally let go of the armrests. He moved his hands to your waist and started caressing your sides while his thumbs hooked into the waistband of your pants. It felt like forever since he first showed you those muscles, but being in the medical field meant constant studying, so you just considered it part of your long-term recall.

“Well, we have to keep our knowledge fresh if we want to pass our clinicals,” you whispered while you leaned back against the chair and let him pull you closer to his chest. Art didn’t look away from your eyes as he kept his hands on you, but his face was closer now, and you could feel the heat of his skin. “You’re giving me way too much personal space right now,” you whispered sarcastically while your face stayed inches away from his. Art let out a quiet huff of air, and his hands tightened on your waist. “Then push me away or do something about it,” he challenged while his eyes dropped down to your mouth.

You didn’t wait for him to say anything else, but you leaned forward to close the gap between you. You kissed him hard while your fingers tangled into the hair at the back of his neck. He groaned into your mouth and shoved his tongue against yours while he pulled your body right against his chest. You wrapped your arms around his neck while your fingers played with the hair at the nape of his head. Art didn't stop kissing you, but he guided you to stand up as he kept his hands firmly on your waist.

He turned you around until your back was facing the bed while he took a few steps forward to keep you close. You felt the edge of the mattress hit the back of your knees, and you let out a soft breath against his lips. “Mmh- stop for a second,” you whispered while he sat you down on the blankets. He finally pulled away from the kiss, but he stayed standing right between your legs as he looked down at you. Art leaned down to kiss you again, but you put your hands on his chest and shoved him back just enough to create space.

“Art- The notes are still sitting on the desk, and I really have to finish that chapter before I can sleep,” you whispered while you looked up at him. He just let out a quiet laugh and brushed off your concern as he stepped even closer between your knees. “The notes can wait for an hour or two,” he muttered while he ignored your excuses. “I still have that upcoming quiz to worry about,” you argued as you tried to keep your voice steady. Art only hummed and leaned in to nuzzle your jaw while his hands stayed firm on your waist. “Yeah, I know. I’m in the same class, but we both know you’ve studied enough,” he murmured as his lips brushed against your skin.

“But I have a clinical practical in my other course too,” you countered while you felt your resolve weakening. He let out a low chuckle and moved his face closer to yours until your noses touched. “Yeah? You already studied for it though,” he teased before he nipped at your bottom lip. “And there are still all those activities I haven't submitted,” you whispered as a last attempt to stop him. Art just smiled against your mouth, and his grip on your hips tightened. “Those aren't going anywhere, and neither am I,” he promised as he finally silenced you with another kiss.

You lost your train of thought when his cold fingers touched the skin of your waist. “Do you actually want me to stop right now?” Art asked while he looked into your eyes and knew exactly what your answer was. He didn't wait for you to speak, but he slipped his hands under the hem of your shirt. You let out a shaky breath while he slowly pushed the fabric up your torso. He kept going until the shirt was bunched around your armpits and your bra was completely showing. “I didn't think so,” he whispered as he let his eyes wander over your chest before he moved his hands to the clasp.

“Go ahead then,” you whispered while you raised your arms so he could finish pulling the bunched shirt over your head. Art let go of the clasp for a second to grab the hem, and he yanked the fabric off before tossing it onto the floor. He moved his hands behind your back again and found the hooks of your bra while he remained inches away from you. You heard a small click as he unhooked it, and he slid the straps off your shoulders. Your bra fell away while you felt the cool air on your bare skin, but his gaze was locked on your chest.

“You’re so beautiful,” Art murmured while he brought his hands down from your back to the front of your waist. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pajama pants, and his thumbs slipped under the elastic of your underwear too. You let out a quiet breath while he kept his touch there without yanking the clothes down yet. He just stared into your eyes while he waited for you to move first. You reached out to grab his wrists while your heart started beating faster against your ribs. Art used a bit of force to tug your pajama pants and underwear down until the fabric bunched around your knees.

“Don't look away from me,” he whispered while he watched your face for any sign of hesitation. You remained sitting on the edge of the mattress and watched him as he moved his hands down to your ankles. He pulled the clothes the rest of the way off your feet before he tossed them onto the pile with your shirt. He dropped down to kneel on the floor right between your thighs while he kept his gaze on you. “Mmh… You look so good for me,” Art groaned while he reached out to grip your knees and open your legs wider.

You braced your hands on the mattress behind you to keep your balance, but you didn't pull away from him. He leaned forward until his face was close to your lap while he stared directly at your wet cunt. He didn't touch you yet, but his eyes took in every inch of you while you waited for him to move. Art gripped your knees and spread your legs even wider as he remained kneeling between your thighs. “Come here,” he muttered while he placed one hand firmly on your ass to pull you even further over the edge of the mattress so his mouth could reach you better.

He used the fingers of his other hand to spread your folds apart so he could get a clear look at you. He licked his lips while he stared at your opening, and his thumb brushed against your skin. He leaned down and bit the inside of your thigh while you let out a small gasp. “Mmh… a-ahh,” you whimpered as he pulled away, but he didn't stop there. He gathered some saliva in his mouth and spat directly onto your clit. He pulled back a few inches so he could watch the spit dripping down over your folds and making you even wetter.

“You’re so soaked for me,” he groaned while he moved his hands from your folds and your ass back to your knees. Art hiked your legs up and draped them over his shoulders while he moved even closer to you. He leaned in until his nose was inches from your cunt, and he took a deep breath of your scent. “You smell so good,” he muttered while he slid his hands back down your thighs to grip your ass and hold you steady in his reach. He leaned the rest of the way in to lick your wet folds from bottom to top while you felt his tongue flicking against your clit.

“Nghh- A-art-” you moaned while you arched your back and braced your hands behind you for support. He started sucking on your clit while he used his tongue to lap at the spit and slick coating your skin. He slid his tongue deep between your folds and licked across your hole before he worked on your clit again with fast movements. “Fuh- more… please,” you whimpered while you watched him move between your thighs. Art let out a muffled growl against your cunt while he kept his tongue moving against you.

He didn't stop for a second while he watched your body shake from his mouth. Art kept flicking his tongue over your clit and sucking on the sensitive skin while you arched your back. He moved one hand away from your ass, but he kept the other one squeezed against your cheek to hold you in place. He brought his hand between your legs and slid one finger into your cunt while he watched your face. He pulled his mouth away from your skin for a second to look at you. “God, you’re so tight around me,” he groaned as he felt your walls squeeze his finger before he began to move it in and out of your hole.

“Mmph- r-right there,” you whimpered while you moved your hands from the mattress to his blonde hair. You gripped the strands tightly and pulled him back down as you began to grind your cunt against his face. He kept fingering you while his nose was buried against your clit, and he licked you again. He kept his tongue lapping at your clit and focused on the way you bucked your hips against his mouth. Art let out a muffled sound of approval while he worked his finger inside you and kept his tongue moving.

Art kept sucking on your clit while he moved his finger in and out of your cunt. Your heels dragged against the back of his shirt, but he didn't pull away from you. “P-please- I want you inside me,” you begged while your fingers tightened in his hair to pull his face harder against your pussy. He just shook his head against your thighs and kept his mouth busy with your clit. You let out a shaky breath as you felt him slide a second finger into your hole alongside the first one. “Not yet,” he mumbled against your skin while he spread your cunt wider with his two fingers.

He flicked his tongue over your clit again but ignored your pleas for his cock. You bucked your hips while your heels dug into his spine, but he held your ass firmly to keep you on the edge of the mattress. “N-ngh- need you…” you whined as he licked along your wet folds before he went back to sucking your clit. He kept moving his fingers inside you while he watched your body shake from the way he was using his mouth. “I-I’m so close-” you begged while your hips jerked against his face. You tried to push his shoulders away because the feeling was getting to be too much, but he didn't listen.

He kept his tongue licking your clit while he worked his fingers into your cunt. “Haaah- a-ahhnn- I'm cumming,” you gasped as your pussy squeezed hard around him. Your legs began to shake while you finally came all over his face. Art quickly pulled his fingers out of your cunt so he could use his mouth while you were still coming. He pressed his lips over your hole and started sucking on you as your cum leaked onto his tongue. “Nn- s-stop,” you whimpered while you tried to shove his head back from your pussy.

Art gripped your ass even harder to keep you from moving, but he kept eating everything you gave him. He didn't stop until you finally finished cumming and he pulled back to look at you. Art rose from his knees and retreated a few steps while he took his clothes off until he was naked. You hoisted yourself from the mattress and leaned over the bed as your hands gripped the sheets, but you kept your feet on the floor. Art watched you while he gripped his cock and started to stroke it. “You want it like this?” he asked while his eyes stayed on your ass.

“Nnnh- y-yes,” you whisper while you keep your head down. Art suddenly shoved you forward on your stomach, but he kept your legs off the bed. He grabbed a pillow and shoved it under your hips to prop you up for him. “Are you comfortable?” he asked while he stepped closer to your back. You felt his hard cock graze against your ass as he leaned over you. “Mhm,” you whimper while you brace yourself against the mattress. Art pushed your hair away from your neck as he helped you turn your head sideways so your face wasn't crushed into the bed.

“Better?” he muttered while he watched you nod against the sheets. “Mhm, yeah,” you hum while you begin to grind your ass back against his cock. He let out a breath while his hands moved from your head to grab both of your ass cheeks. Art pulled your cheeks apart while he guided his cock right between them. He didn't put it in, but he just slid his shaft forward to tease you with the head of his cock. “A-ahhnn- want it-” you whimper while you feel the tip of his cock bump against your asshole. He kept rubbing his length up and down while he held you open to watch how much you wanted it.

He let out a grunt as he slid it again just to make you beg for him to finally go inside. Art reached forward until his hand was in front of your face. “Spit on it,” he ordered while his fingers brushed against your lips. You did what he said before he pulled his hand back toward his own lap. He spat on his palm as well while he began to stroke his cock to get it wet. “Mmn, h-hurry,” you groan while your hands squeeze the bedsheets. Art gripped his cock and lined the head up with your pussy. He began to slide inside you slowly while he watched your back arch. “H-hah, f-fuck-” you gasp as he keeps pushing until he is fully inside your cunt. He stayed there for a second while he let you take all of him.

“Mm, it’s- big,” you whimper while you feel your walls stretch around his length. Art gripped your hips while he started thrusting his cock into your cunt. “You really think I can think about another woman when you’re this tight?” he grunted while he watched the way your skin grew hot under his touch. “Nn- faster,” you moan while you bury your face into the pillow. He let out a rough laugh as he realized you were actually jealous of that girl from the library. Art kept hitting your walls while he moved one hand from your hip to reach under your chest. He grabbed your tit and started to squeeze it hard as he kept his chest pressed firmly against your back.

“Mmn, a-ahhnn- r-right there!” you whine while you feel the air in the room get thick as his sweat drips onto your skin. He leaned down toward your ear as his fingers pinched your nipple. “Tell me you’re the only one I’m fucking,” he muttered while his cock buried itself to the base inside you. “M-me, ah-! only-” you gasp while your back arches under him. Art let out a low grunt as he kept his pace steady. “Yeah, you,” he whispered while he leaned closer to his skin. “And who’s the only one you’re ever going to let do this to you?” he asked while he drove his cock even deeper into your pussy. “Y-you- fuc- you,” you whimper while you grip the pillow beneath you.

“That’s right,” he muttered before he pulled away from your ear. Art leaned down and bit the skin near your shoulder blade while he started to suck a hickey onto your back. He let out a huff of air as he remembered all the excuses you made earlier to avoid being alone with him. “Funny how you had all those things to do, but you’re still taking me like this,” he teased while his hand moved to pinch your nipple again. “N-ngh- stop-” you cried out while your cunt clamped down around his shaft. He just laughed and kept thrusting as he watched your body react to his touch.

Art stood straight again while he kept his pace going. He put one hand on your back and held you down against the pillow under your stomach. “Mmn, w-wait,” you gasp while your body moves around from the friction. He started thrusting faster as he pinned you against the mattress. He just smirked like an asshole while he kept slamming his cock into your cunt. “You're acting like a total mess right now, but you look so good taking all of me,” Art muttered while he watched your back arch. “H-hngh- shut up,” you whine while you try to steady yourself against the mattress.

He didn't slow down, but he kept his hand on your back to keep you pinned. “Yes- k-keep doing that-” you moan while your pussy squeezes around him. He let out a grunt as he kept forcing his length into you until you couldn't take any more. Art grabbed your wrist to stop you from touching yourself before he pulled his cock out of your cunt. He gripped your waist and helped you climb fully onto the bed so you weren't standing on the floor anymore. “It’s so much better to see you like this,” he muttered while he watched you lie back against the sheets.

You watched him crawl over you before he grabbed the pillow and slid it under your ass to lift you up. Art positioned himself between your legs while he used the pillow to keep you open for him. He lined his cock up with your opening before he thrust all the way back inside you. “H-hahh so f-full- shi-” you gasp while you feel him hit your spot with the new angle. He let out a grunt as he began to shove his length into you again. “Mmn, f-fuck- you're so deep,” you whimper while your legs wrap around his waist to keep him close.

You reached for the back of Art’s neck and pulled him down until your lips met his. He groaned into your mouth while you shoved your tongue against his to start a deep kiss. “Mmf- a-ahhnn,” you moan while you feel his cock slide back into your pussy. He kept himself low over you as he began to move his hips at a steady pace. You wrapped your arms around his neck while you kept the kiss going. Art groped your breast as he used his tongue to explore your mouth. He squeezed your nipple hard, but he didn't break the kiss.

“Nn- m-mmh,” you whimper while his cock hits your spot. You felt your walls clench around him as he buried himself to the hilt. He let out a grunt while he increased the speed of his hips to make you gasp against his lips. Art pulled away from the kiss and propped himself on his knees so your chests weren't touching anymore. He placed his hand on your stomach and pushed down while he slammed his cock deep enough to hit the same spot. “Mnh… F-fuck, Art,” you moan while you place your hand over his.

Your nails dug into the back of his hand as you raised your hips to grind back against him. “Don't stop, p-please-” you whimper while you feel your cunt start to tighten around his length. You looked away toward the side of the bed and put a hand over your mouth to muffle your sounds as you started cumming. The mattress creaks under his weight while you shake and try to keep your voice down. Art reached out with his free hand and grabbed your jaw to turn your face back toward him. “Look at me,” he commanded while he watched your eyes roll back.

“Don't hide your face when you're taking me like this,” he muttered while he kept thrusting through your climax. You squeezed your eyes shut while you tried to hide the pleasure from your face. You felt embarrassed because you couldn't stop your eyes from rolling back while you panted for air. “Look at me while I’m inside you,” Art ordered while his thumb hooked over your bottom lip to pull it down. You shake your head as you try to keep your mouth closed, but the sensitivity is too much for you to handle.

The hallway is quiet, but you can hear the skin slapping each time he thrusts into your cunt and grinds his hips against yours. Art reached down and yanked your hand away from your mouth so your moans filled the room. “Stop trying to be quiet when you’re taking it this well,” he growled while he watched your jaw drop open. You let out a loud cry while you felt his cock hit your spot over and over again. “Ahh- Art- they’ll hear… S-stop,” you gasp while you grip his wrists. He didn't care about the people in the dorm building as he kept thrusting his length into you as hard as he could.

Art kept slamming his cock into your cunt while his hand pressed into your stomach to keep you pinned. His skin is damp with sweat while he picks up the pace. “Mnh- Art, ahh… d-don't stop,” you whimper while you wrap your legs around his waist to pull him closer. He let out a choked sound as he felt your walls clench around his shaft. You tried to lock your ankles behind his back, but he suddenly let go of your stomach to grab your knees. “Not inside,” Art grunted while he forced your legs out and wide against the mattress.

He pulled his cock out of you right before he was about to blow. “W-wait- ahh-” you cried out while you watched him stroke himself a few more times. He lets out a rough groan while he shoots his load all over your mound and clit. You watched the hot cum coat your skin before he lowered himself beside you to catch his breath. You propped yourself up while the wetness of his cum still coated your skin. You leaned down toward his lap and wrapped your fingers around his cock while it was still soft from finishing.

“I’m n-not done with you yet,” you whisper while you start to stroke him with a firm grip. He let out a long breath as he watched you through half-closed eyes. “Are you serious? I’m exhausted,” Art groaned while he felt your hand move over his length. Art is flat on his back while you keep moving your hand up and down his shaft. The lamp on the desk is still on and shows the way his chest moves while he tries to breathe. “Too bad,” you mutter while you lean closer to his face. Art let out a tired laugh, but he didn't pull away from your touch.

“You’re actually a brat,” he breathed while he felt his cock start to get hard in your palm again. You crawled on top of Art and straddled his lap while his cock was still hard between your legs. You look down at his messy blonde hair while you start to hump against him. “Wait… I-I just finished,” Art whimpered while he gripped your hips to slow you down. You ignored him and kept grinding your cunt against his shaft so he could feel how wet you were. “You’ve already come twice,” he breathed while his head hit the pillow.

“Too bad for you because I’m ovulating today,” you mutter while you lean down to look him in the eyes. His pupils are wide while he watches you move. “Mmh… If you weren't here, I’d just be using a pillow or my fingers anyway,” you gasp while you increase the pace of your hips. Art suddenly gripped your waist with both hands and held your hips down to stop you from moving. “Don't move,” he ordered while he tried to catch his breath. “I’m way too sensitive for you to be doing that right now,” he muttered while he held your hips still.

You tried to shift your weight to start grinding again, but Art’s grip tightened on your waist to keep you pinned. He is on the mattress while he stares up at you with a tired expression. You looked down at him and narrowed your eyes because you weren't ready to stop. “You used your tongue on my cunt until I came, and then you stuffed your cock in me right after,” you pointed out while your hands stayed on his chest. “I was sensitive too, but I didn't complain while you were busy taking your turn,” you whisper while you feel his fingers dig into your skin.

Art let out a short laugh while he braced his hands against your hips to make you sit still on his lap. He reaches up to brush a stray hair behind your ear while he looks at your face. “Shit- just give me a minute,” he groaned while he felt his cock pulsing between your thighs. You let out a small whine as he pulled your upper body down until you were lying right on top of him. “Don't look at me like that,” Art breathed while his lips brushed against your ear. “I'm going to fuck you until you're sore once I've had a second to breathe,” he promised while he tucked his head into the crook of your neck.

⠀⠀⠀

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

⠀⠀⠀

you thought you knew what they needed, you thought you were equipped to handle anything they threw at you. you’d known them for the majority of your lives at this point, so seeing something completely new from patrick is terrifying. it takes days to figure out the root of the problem, days of walking on eggshells trying to get patrick to open up again. art is particularly needy because he’s just as scared as you are when patrick stops responding to your texts and spends more time out doing who knows what. you know he’s punishing himself, but you don’t know how to get him to stop. it takes locking him in a room with you and art to get him to talk, then it takes hours for the three of you to lay it all out. you address patrick’s self blaming and art’s insecurities, but you don’t say anything about how it’s affecting you. you don’t even think it’s affecting you at all - you just feel relieved that your boys have worked their feelings out in the open.

so, when things return to an improved normal, why don’t you feel better? why does it feel like there’s something gnawing in your chest? and— why are they looking at you like that?

“what’s wrong? are you okay?” they both speak at the same time, so you’re not even sure who says what, but suddenly, the two of them are on either side of you on the floor of your room with worry written all over their faces.

“what?” you hear yourself ask the question, but the words feel distant from you. like you’re watching yourself through backward binoculars. it’s then that you feel how wet your face is. you’re crying. you hadn’t even realized. come to think of it, you’re not sure how or when you ended up on the floor either. your tongue feels numb and you can’t stop the tears. you know they’re talking to you but you can’t hear them anymore. it’s like you’re being swallowed whole by a dark cloud.

the next thing you remember is an overwhelming sense of comfort. you’re laying down, pressed between two bodies. you know these bodies. art and patrick. your boys. you blink your eyes open, taking a moment to adjust to the light coming through your window. it hasn’t been that long, then. above you, art and patrick are sitting propped against your headboard and talking in hushed voices. yours cuts through them, though it’s still soft with sleep, “what happened?”

they look down at you and it’s clear how relieved that are that you’re awake. that you’re somewhat okay.

“we’re not sure, baby, but we think you might have had a panic attack.” patrick says, instinctively reaching out to touch you but hesitating, like you’re made of glass he’s afraid he’ll break. you gently take his wrist and bring his hand to your face so you can nuzzle into it. art wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you up so you’re curled up in his lap, patrick closes the gap where your body was between them and pulls your legs over his lap, so you all stay touching.

“this week was really hard on you, wasn’t it?” art asks quietly.

you think for a moment and your lip wobbles, “i just wanted to help you both. i didn’t think i needed anything else.”

“you did help us. so perfectly.” patrick says, his hand still on your face. “we should have seen it was taking a toll on you.”

“no, i should have been able to handle it. i always handle it.” you insist, tears threatening to fall again. you feel art’s arms tighten around your waist.

“you’re right, you always handle it - handle us - but we need to take care of you, too.” art says. “i mean, jesus, we put so much on you this week alone. we should have checked on you. we should have been checking on you for the last ten years.”

“you’re our girl.” patrick smiles, leaning closer to look you in the eye. “just because you can, doesn’t mean you have to do everything by yourself. we’re here for you, too, sweetheart.”

you nod, letting out a choked little sob, and the two of them are on you again, cuddling you, holding you as close as they can. you can hear the steady rhythm of their heartbeats, feel the soft rise and fall of their chests. you remember what art always asks when he’s being held like this and decide to test it for yourself, “i was good?”

the answer is immediate from both of them.

“the fucking best,” from patrick.

“so so good - perfect, baby,” from art.